Skip to main content

Full text of "The last chronicle of Barset"

See other formats

/ V ^ 












VOL. I. 




\The right of Translation is reserved."] 


















































MR. AND MRS. CRAWLEY to face page 6 




" SPEAK OUT, DAN " 104 

















CAN never bring myself to 
believe it, John," said Mary 
Walker, the pretty daughter of 
Mr. George Walker, attorney 
of Silverbridge. Walker and 
Winthrop was the name of the 
firm, and they were respect- 
able people, who did all the 
solicitors' business that had to 
be done in that part of Barset- 
shire on behalf of the Crown, 
were employed on the local 
business of the Duke of Om- 
nium who is great in those 
parts, and altogether held their 
heads up high, as provincial 
lawyers often do. They, the 
Walkers, lived in a great brick 
house in the middle of the town, gave dinners, to which the county 
gentlemen not unfrequently condescended to come, and in a mild way 
led the fashion in Silverbridge. " I can never bring myself to believe 
it, John," said Miss Walker. 

I. B 


" You'll have to bring yourself to believe it," said John, without 
taking his eyes from his book. 

" A clergyman, and such a clergyman too ! " 

" I don't see that that has anything to do with it." And as he 
now spoke, John did take his eyes off his book. " Why should not a 
clergyman turn thief as well as anybody else ? You girls always seem 
to forget that clergymen are only men after all." 

" Their conduct is likely to be better than that of other men, 
I think." 

" I deny it utterly," said John Walker. " I'll undertake to say 
.that at this moment there are more clergymen in debt in Barsetshire 
than there are either lawyers or doctors. This man has always been in 
debt. Since he has been in the county I don't think he has ever been 
able to show his face in the High Street of Silverbridge." 

"John, that is saying more than you have a right to say," said 
Mrs. Walker. 

" Why, mother, this very cheque was given to a butcher who had 
threatened a few days before to post bills all about the county, giving 
an account of the debt that was due to him, if the money was not paid 
at once." 

" More shame for Mr. Fletcher," said Mary. "He has made a 
fortune as butcher in Silverbridge." 

" What has that to do with it ? Of course a man likes to have his 
money. He had written three times to the bishop, and he had sent 
a man over to Hogglestock to get his little bill settled six days running. 
You see he got it at last. Of course, a tradesman must look for his 

"Mamma, do you "think that Mr. Crawley stole the cheque?" 
Mary, as she asked the question, came and stood over her mother, 
looking at her with anxious eyes. 

" I would rather give no opinion, my dear." 

" But you must think something when everybody is talking about 
it, mamma." 

" Of course my mother thinks he did," said John, going back to 
his book. " It is impossible that she should think otherwise." 

" That is not fair, John," said Mrs. Walker; " and I won't have 
you fabricate thoughts for me, or put the expression of them into my 
mouth. The whole affair is very painful, and as your father is engaged 
in the inquiry, I think that the less said about the matter in this house 
the better. I am sure that that would be your father's feeling." 

" Of course I should say nothing about it before him," said Mary. 


" 1 know that papa does not wish to have it talked about. But how is 
one to help thinking about such a thing ? It would be so terrible for 
all of us who belong to the Church." 

" I do not see that at all," said John. " Mr. Crawley is not more 
than any other man just because he's a clergyman. I hate all that 
kind of clap-trap. There are a lot of people here in Silverbridge who 
think the matter shouldn't be followed up, just because the man is in 
a position which makes the crime more criminal in him than it would 
be in another." 

" But I feel sure that Mr. Crawley has committed no crime at all," 
said Mary. 

" My dear," said Mrs. Walker, " I have just said that I would 
rather you would not talk about it. Papa will be in directly." 

" I won't, mamma ; only " 

" Only ! yes ; just only ! " said John. " She'd go on till dinner 
if any one would stay to hear her." 

" You've said twice as much as I have, John." But John had left 
the room before his sister's last words could reach him. 

" You know, mamma, it is quite impossible not to help thinking of 
it," said Mary. 

" I dare say it is, my dear." 

" And when one knows the people it does make it so dreadful." 

11 But do you know them ? I never spoke to Mr. Crawley in my 
life, and I do not think I ever saw her." 

" I knew Grace very well, when she used to come first to Miss 
Prettyman's school." 

" Poor girl. I pity her." 

" Pity her ! Pity is no word for it, mamma. My heart bleeds for 
them. And yet I do not believe for a moment that he stole the cheque. 
How can it be possible ? For though he may have been in debt 
because they have been so very, very poor ; yet we all know that he 
has been an excellent clergyman. When the Kobartses were dining, 
here last, I heard Mrs. Robarts say that for piety and devotion to his 
duties she had hardly ever seen any one equal to him. And the 
Robartses know more of them than anybody." 

" They say that the dean is his great friend." 

" What a pity it is that the Arabins should be away just now when 
he is in such trouble." And in this way the mother and daughter 
went on discussing the question of the clergyman's guilt in spite of 
Mrs. Walker's previously expressed -desire that nothing more might be 
said about it. But Mrs. Walker, like many other mothers, was apt to 

B 2 


be more free in converse with her daughter than she was with her son. 
While they were thus talking the father came in from his office, and 
then the subject was dropped. He was a man between fifty and sixty 
years of age, with grey hair, rather short, and somewhat corpulent, 
but still gifted with that amount of personal comeliness which comfort- 
able position and the respect of others will generally seem to give. A 
man rarely carries himself meanly, whom the world holds high in esteem. 

" I am very tired, my dear," said Mr. Walker. 

" You look tired. Come and sit down for a few minutes before you 
dress. Mary, get your father's slippers." Mary instantly ran to the door. 

" Thanks, my darling," said the father. And then he whispered 
to his wife, as soon as Maiy was out of hearing, " I fear that unfortu- 
nate man is guilty. I fear he is ! I fear he is ! " 

" Oh, heavens ! what will become of them ? " 

" What indeed ? She has been with me to-day." 

" Has she ? And what could you say to her ? " 

" I told her at first that I could not see her, and begged her not to 
speak to me about it. I tried to make her understand that she should 
go to some one else. But it was of no use." 

"And how did it end?" 

" I asked her to go in to you, but she declined. She said you 
could do nothing for her." 

" And does she think her husband guilty ?" 

" No, indeed. She think him guilty ! Nothing on earth, or from 
heaven either, as I take it, would make her suppose it to be possible. 
She came to me simply to tell me how good he was." 

" I love her for that," said Mrs. Walker. 

" So did I. But what is the good of loving her ? Thank you, 
dearest. I'll get your slippers for you some day, perhaps." 

The whole county was astir in this matter of this alleged guilt of the 
Heverend Josiah Crawley, the whole county, almost as keenly as the 
family of Mr. Walker, of Silverbridge. The crime laid to his charge 
was the theft of a cheque for twenty pounds, which he was said to 
have stolen out of a pocket-book left or dropped in his house, and 
to have passed as money into the hands of one Fletcher, a butcher of 
Silverbridge, to whom he was indebted. Mr. Crawley was in those 
days the perpetual curate of Hogglestock, a parish in the northern 
extremity of East Barsetshire ; a man known by all who knew anything 
of him to be very poor, an unhappy, moody, disappointed man, upon 
whom the troubles of the world always seemed to come with a double 
weight. But he had ever been respected as a clergyman, since his old 


friend Mr. Arabin, the dean of Barchester, had given him the small 
incumbency which he now held. Though moody, unhappy, and dis- 
appointed, he was a hard-working, conscientious pastor among the poor 
people with whom his lot was cast ; for in the parish of Hogglestock 
there resided only a few farmers higher in degree than field labourers, 
brickmakers, and such like. Mr. Crawley had now passed some ten 
years of his life at Hogglestock ; and during those years he had worked 
very hard to do his duty, struggling to teach the people around him 
perhaps too much of the mystery, but something also of the comfort, 
of religion. That he had become popular in his parish cannot be said 
of him. He was not a man to make himself popular in any position. 
I have said that he was moody and disappointed. He was even worse 
than this ; he was morose, sometimes almost to insanity. There had 
been days in which even his wife had found it impossible to deal with 
him otherwise than as with an acknowledged lunatic. And this was 
known among the fanners, who talked about their clergyman among 
themselves as though he were a madman. But among the very poor, 
among the brickmakers of Hoggle End, a lawless, drunken, terribly 
rough lot of humanity, he was held in high respect ; for they knew 
that he lived hardly, as they lived ; that he worked hard, as they 
worked; and that the outside world was hard to him, as it was to 
them ; and there had been an apparent sincerity of godliness about the 
man, and a manifest struggle to do his duty in spite of the world's 
ill-usage, which had won its way even with the rough ; so that Mr. 
Crawley's name had stood high with many in his parish, in spite of 
the unfortunate peculiarity of his disposition. This was the man who 
was now accused of stealing a cheque for twenty pounds. 

But before the circumstances of the alleged theft are stated, a word 
or two must be said as to Mr. Crawley's family. It is declared that a 
good wife is a crown to her husband, but Mrs. Crawley had been much 
more than a crown to him. As had regarded all the inner life of the 
man, all that portion of his life which had not been passed in the 
pulpit or in pastoral teaching, she had been crown, throne, and 
sceptre all in one. That she had endured with him and on his behalf 
the miseries of poverty, and the troubles of a life which had known no 
smiles, is perhaps not to be alleged as much to her honour. She had 
joined herself to him for better or worse, and it was her manifest 
duty to bear such things ; wives always have to bear them, knowing 
when they marry that they must take their chance. Mr. Crawley 
might have been a bishop, and Mrs. Crawley, when she married him, 
perhaps thought it probable that such would be his fortune. Instead 


of that he was now, just as he was approaching his fiftieth year, a 
perpetual curate, with an income of one hundred and thirty poands per 
annum, and a family. That had been Mrs. Crawley's luck in life, and 
of course she bore it. But she had also done much more than this. 
She had striven hard to be contented, or, rather, to appear to be con- 
tented, when he had been most wretched and most moody. She had 
struggled to conceal from him her own conviction as to his half- insanity, 
treating him at the same time with the respect due to an honoured 
father of a family, and with the careful measured indulgence fit for a 
sick and wayward child. In all the terrible troubles of their life her 
courage had been higher than his. The metal of which she was made 
had been tempered to a steel which was very rare and fine, but the 
rareness and fineness of which he had failed to appreciate. He had 
often told her that she was without pride, because she had stooped to 
receive from others, on his behalf and on behalf of her children, things 
which were very needful, but which she could not buy. He had told 
her that she was a beggar, and that it was better to starve than to beg. 
She had borne the rebuke without a word in reply, and had then 
begged again for him, and had endured the starvation herself. Nothing 
in their poverty had, for years past, been a shame to her ; but every acci- 
dent of their poverty was still, and ever had been, a living disgrace to him. 
They had had many children, and three were still alive. Of the 
eldest, Grace Crawley, we shall hear much in the coming story. She 
was at this time nineteen years old, and there were those who said that, 
in spite of her poverty, her shabby outward apparel, and a certain thin, 
unfledged, unrounded form of person, a want of fulness in the lines of 
her figure, she was the prettiest girl in that part of the world. She was 
living now at a school in Silverbridge, where for the last year she had 
been a teacher ; and there were many in Silverbridge who declared that 
very bright prospects were opening to her, that young Major Grantly 
of Cosby Lodge, who, though a widower with a young child, was the 
cynosure of all female eyes in and round Silverbridge, had found beauty 
in her thin face, and that Grace Crawley's fortune was made in the 
teeth, as it were, of the prevailing ill-fortune of her family. Bob 
Crawley, who was two years younger, was now at Marlbro' School, from 
whence it was intended that he should proceed to Cambridge, and be 
educated there at the expense of his godfather, Dean Arabin. In this 
also the world saw a stroke of good luck. But then nothing was lucky 
to Mr. Crawley. Bob, indeed, who had done very well at school, might 
do well at Cambridge, might do great things there. But Mr. Crawley 
would almost have preferred that the boy should work in the fields, 



than that he should be educated in a manner so manifestly eleemosynary. 
And then his clothes ! How was he to be provided with clothes fit 
either for school or for college ? But the dean and Mrs. Crawley 
between them managed this, leaving Mr. Crawley very much in the 
dark, as Mrs. Crawley was in the habit of leaving him. Then there 
was a younger daughter, Jane, still at home, who passed her life 
between her mother's work-table and her father's Greek, mending linen 
and learning to scan iambics, for Mr. Crawley in his early days had 
been a ripe scholar. 

And now there had come upon them all this terribly- crushing 
disaster. That poor Mr. Crawley had gradually got himself into a 
mess of debt at Silverbridge, from which he was quite unable to extri- 
cate himself, was generally known by all the world both of Silverbridge 
and Hogglestock. To a great many it was known that Dean Arabin 
had paid money for him, very much contrary to his own consent, and 
that he had quarrelled, or attempted to quarrel, with the dean in 
consequence, had so attempted, although the money had in part 
passed through his own hands. There had been one creditor, Fletcher, 
the butcher of Silverbridge, who had of late been specially hard upon 
poor Crawley. This man, who had not been without good nature in his 
dealings, had heard stories of the dean's good- will and such like, and 
had loudly "expressed his opinion that the perpetual curate of Hoggle- 
stock would show a higher pride in allowing himself to be indebted 
to a rich brother clergyman, than in remaining under thrall to a 
butcher. And thus a rumour had grown up. And then the butcher 
had written repeated letters to the bishop, to Bishop Proudie of Bar- 
chester, who had at first caused his chaplain to answer them, and had 
told Mr. Crawley somewhat roundly what was his opinion of a clergy- 
man who eat meat and did not pay for it. But nothing that the bishop 
could say or do enabled Mr. Crawley to pay the butcher. It was very 
grievous to such a man as Mr. Crawley to receive these letters from 
such a man as Bishop Proudie ; but the letters came, and made fester- 
ing wounds, but then there was an end of them. And at last there had 
ome forth from the butcher's shop a threat that if the money were not 
paid by a certain date, printed bills should be posted about the county. 
All who heard of this in Silverbridge were very angry with Mr. Fletcher, 
for no one there had ever known a tradesman to take such a step 
before ; but Fletcher swore that he would persevere, and defended 
himself by showing that six or seven months since, in the spring of the 
year, Mr. Crawley had been paying money in Silverbridge, but had paid 
none to him, to him who had been not only his earliest, but his most 


enduring creditor. " He got money from the dean in March," said 
Mr. Fletcher to Mr. Walker, " and he paid twelve pounds ten to Green, 
and seventeen pounds to Grobury, the baker." It was that seventeen 
pounds to Grobury, the baker, for flour, which made the butcher sa 
fixedly determined to smite the poor clergyman hip and thigh. " And he 
paid money to Hall, and to Mrs. Holt, and to a deal more ; but he never 
came near my shop. If he had even shown himself, I would not have said 
so much about it." And then a day before the date named, Mrs. Crawley 
had come to Silverbridge, and had paid the butcher twenty pounds in 
four five-pound notes. So far Fletcher the butcher had been successful. 

Some six weeks after this, inquiry began to be made as to a certain 
cheque for twenty pounds drawn by Lord Lufton on his bankers in 
London, which cheque had been lost early in the spring by Mr. Soames, 
Lord Luf ton's man of business in Barsetshire, together with a pocket- 
book in which it had been folded. This pocket-book Soames had 
believed himself to have left at Mr. Crawley's house, and had gone so 
far, even at the time of the loss, as to express his absolute conviction 
that he had so left it. He was in the habit of paying a rentcharge 
to Mr. Crawley on behalf of Lord Lufton, amounting to twenty pounds 
four shillings, every half-year. Lord Lufton held the large tithes of 
Hogglestock, and paid annually a sum of forty pounds eight shillings 
to the incumbent. This amount was, as a rule, remitted punctually 
by Mr. Soames through the post. On the occasion now spoken of, he 
had had some reason for visiting Hogglestock, and had paid the money 
personally to Mr. Crawley. Of so much there was no doubt. But 
he had paid it by a cheque drawn by himself on his own bankers at 
Barchester, and that cheque had been cashed in the ordinary way on 
the next morning. On returning to his own house in Barchester 
he had missed his pocket-book, and had written to Mr. Crawley to 
make inquiry. There had been no money in it, beyond the cheque 
drawn by Lord Lufton for twenty pounds. Mr. Crawley had answered 
this letter by another, saying that no pocket-book had been found in 
his house. All this had happened in March. 

In October, Mrs. Crawley paid the twenty pounds to Fletcher, the 
butcher, and in November Lord Lufton's cheque was traced back 
through the Barchester bank to Mr. Crawley's hands. A brickmaker of 
Hoggle End, much favoured by Mr. Crawley, had asked for change over 
the counter of this Barchester bank, not, as will be understood, the bank 
on which the cheque was drawn and had received it. The accommoda- 
tion had been refused to the man at first, but when he presented the 
cheque the second day, bearing Mr. Crawley's name on the back of it, 


together with a note from Mr. Crawley himself, the money had been given 
for it ; and the identical notes so paid had been given to Fletcher, the 
butcher, on the next day by Mrs. Crawley. When inquiry was made, 
Mr. Crawley stated that the cheque had been paid to him by Mr. Soames, 
on behalf of the rentcharge due to him by Lord Lufton. But the error 
of this statement was at once made manifest. There was the cheque, 
signed by Mr. Soames himself, for the exact amount, twenty pounds 
four shillings. As he himself declared, he had never in his life paid 
money on behalf of "Lord Lufton by a cheque drawn by his lordship. 
The cheque given by Lord Lufton, and which had been lost, had been 
a private matter between them. His lordship had simply wanted 
change in his pocket, and his agent had given it to him. Mr. Crawley 
was speedily shown to be altogether wrong in the statement made to 
account for possession of the cheque. 

Then he became very moody and would say nothing further. But 
his wife, who had known nothing of his first statement when made, came 
forward and declared that she believed the cheque for twenty pounds 
to be a part of a present given by Dean Arabin to her husband in 
April last. There had been, she said, great heartburnings about this 
gift, and she had hardly dared to speak to her husband on the subject. 
An execution had been threatened in the house by Grobury, the baker, 
of which the dean had heard. Then there had been some scenes at 
the deanery between her husband and the dean and Mrs. Arabin, 
as to which she had subsequently heard much from Mrs. Arabin. 
Mrs. Arabin had told her that money had been given, and at last 
taken. Indeed, so much had been very apparent, as bills had been 
paid to the amount of at least fifty pounds. When the threat made 
by the butcher had reached her husband's ears, the effect upon him 
had been very grievous. All this was the story told by Mrs. Crawley 
to Mr. Walker, the lawyer, when he was pushing his inquiries. She, 
poor woman, at any rate told all that she knew. Her husband had told 
her one morning, when the butcher's threat was weighing heavily on 
his mind, speaking to her in such a humour that she found it impos- 
sible to cross- question him, that he had still money left, though it was 
money which he had hoped that he would not be driven to use ; and he 
had given her the four five-pound notes, and had told her to go to 
Silverbridge and satisfy the man who was so eager for his money. She 
had done so, and had felt no doubt that the money so forthcoming had 
been given by the dean. That was the story as told by Mrs. Crawley. 

But how could she explain her husband's statement as to the 
cheque, which had been shown to be altogether false ? All this passed 


between Mr. Walker and Mrs. Crawley, and the lawyer was very- 
gentle with her. In the first stages of the inquiry he had simply 
desired to learn the truth, and place the clergyman above suspicion. 
Latterly, being bound as he was to follow the matter up officially, he 
would not have seen Mrs. Crawley, had he been able to escape that 
lady's importunity. " Mr. Walker," she had said, at last, "you do 
not know my husband. No one knows him but I. It is hard to have 
to tell you of all our troubles." " If I can lessen them, trust me that 
I will do so," said the lawyer. " No one, I thinkj can lessen them in 
this world," said the lady. " The truth is, sir, that my husband often 
knows not what he says. When he declared that the money had been 
paid to him by Mr. Soames, most certainly he thought so. There are 
times when in his misery he knows not what he says, when he forgets 

Up to this period Mr. Walker had not suspected Mr. Crawley of 
anything dishonest, nor did he suspect him as yet. The poor man had 
probably received the money from the dean, and had told the lie about 
it, not choosing to own that he had taken money from his rich friend, 
and thinking that there would be no further inquiry. He had been very 
foolish, and that would be the end of it. Mr. Soames was by no means 
so good-natured in his belief. " How should my pocket-book have got 
into Dean Arabin's hands?" said Mr. Soames, almost triumphantly. 
" And then I felt sure at the time that I had left it at Crawley's 
house ! " 

Mr. Walker wrote a letter to the dean, who at that moment was in 
Florence, on his way to Rome, from whence he was going on to the 
Holy Land. There came back a letter from Mr. Arabin, saying that on 
the 17th of March he had given to Mr. Crawley a sum of fifty pounds, 
and that the payment had been made with five Bank of England notes 
of ten pounds each, which had been handed by him to his friend in the 
library at the deanery. The letter was very short, and may, perhaps, 
be described as having been almost curt. Mr. Walker, in his anxiety 
to do the best he could for Mr. Crawley, had simply asked a question 
as to the nature of the transaction between the two gentlemen, saying 
that no doubt the dean's answer would clear up a little mystery which 
existed at present respecting a cheque for twenty pounds. The dean 
in answer simply stated the fact as it has been given above ; but he 
wrote to Mr. Crawley begging to know what was in truth this new 
difficulty, and offering any assistance in his power. He explained all 
the circumstances of the money, as he remembered them. The sum 
advanced had certainly consisted of fifty pounds, and there had certainly 


been five Bank of England notes. He had put the notes into an enve- 
lope, which he had not closed, but had addressed to Mr. Crawley, and 
had placed this envelope in his friend's hands. He went on to say that 
Mrs. Arabin would have written, but that she was in Paris with her son. 
Mrs. Arabin was to remain in Paris during his absence in the Holy 
Land, and meet him in Italy on his return. As she was so much 
nearer at hand, the dean expressed a hope that Mrs. Crawley would 
apply to her if there was any trouble. 

The letter to Mr. Walker was conclusive as to the dean's money. 
Mr. Crawley had not received Lord Lufton's cheque from the dean. 
Then whence had he received it ? The poor wife was left by the 
lawyer to obtain further information from her husband. Ah, who can 
tell how terrible were the scenes between that poor pair of wretches, as 
the wife endeavoured to learn the truth from her miserable, half- 
maddened husband ! That her husband had been honest throughout, 
she had not any shadow of doubt. She did not doubt that to her at 
least he endeavoured to tell the truth, as far as his poor racked 
imperfect memoiy would allow him to remember what was true and 
what was not true. The upshot of it all was that the husband declared 
that he still believed that the money had come to him from the dean. 
He had kept it by him, not wishing to use it if he could help it. He 
had forgotten it, so he said at times, having understood from Arabin 
that he was to have fifty pounds, and having received more. If it had 
not come to him from the dean, then it had been sent to him by the 
P.ince of Evil for his utter undoing ; and there were times in which he 
seemed to think that such had been the manner in which the fatal 
cheque had reached him. In all that he said he was terribly confused, 
contradictory, unintelligible, speaking almost as a madman might 
speak, ending always by declaring that the cruelty of the world had 
been too much for him, that the waters were meeting over his head, 
and praying for God's mercy to remove him from the world. It need 
hardly be said that his poor wife in these days had a burden on her 
shoulders that was more than enough to crush any woman. 

She at last acknowledged to Mr. Walker that she could not account 
for the twenty pounds. She herself would write again to the dean 
about it, but she hardly hoped for any further assistance there. " The 
dean v s answer is very plain," said Mr. Walker. " He says that he 
gave Mr. Crawley five ten-pound notes, and those five notes we have 
traced to Mr. Crawley's hands." Then Mrs. Crawley could say nothing 
further beyond making protestations of her husband's innocence. 



I MUST ask the reader to make the acquaintance of Major Grantly 
of Cosby Lodge, before he is introduced to the family of Mr. Crawley, 
at their parsonage in Hogglestock. It has been said that Major 
Grantly had thrown a favourable eye on Grace Crawley, by which 
report occasion was given to all men and women in those parts to hint 
that the Crawleys, with all their piety and humility, were very cunning, 
and that one of the Grantlys was, to say the least of it, very soft, 
admitted as it was throughout the county of Barsetshire, that there was 
no family therein more widely awake to the affairs generally of this 
world and the next combined, than the family of which Archdeacon 
Grantly was the respected head and patriarch. Mrs. Walker, the most 
good-natured woman in Silverbridge, had acknowledged to her daughter 
that she could not understand it, that she could not see anything at 
all in Grace Crawley. Mr. Walker had shrugged his shoulders and 
expressed a confident belief that Major Grantly had not a shilling of his 
own beyond his half-pay and his late wife's fortune, which was only six 
thousand pounds. Others, who were ill-natured, had declared that 
Grace Crawley was little better than a beggar, and that she could not 
possibly have acquired the manners of a gentlewoman. Fletcher the 
butcher had wondered whether the major would pay his future father- 
in-law's debts ; and Dr. Tempest, the old rector of Silverbridge, whose 
four daughters were all as yet unmarried, had turned up his old nose, 
and had hinted that half-pay majors did not get caught in marriage 
so easily as that. 

Such and such like had been the expressions of the opinion of men 
and women in Silverbridge. But the matter had been discussed further 
afield than at Silverbridge, and had been allowed to intrude itself as a 
most unwelcome subject into the family conclave of the archdeacon's 
rectory. To those who have not as yet learned the fact from the public 
character and well- appreciated reputation of the man, let it be known 
that Archdeacon Grantly was at this time, as he had been for many 
years previously, 'Archdeacon of Barchester and Rector of Plumstead 
Episcopi. A rich and prosperous man he had ever been, though he 
also had had his sore troubles, as we all have, his having arisen chiefly 


from want of that higher ecclesiastical promotion -which his soul had 
coveted, and for which the whole tenour of his life had especially fitted 
him. Now, in his green old age, he had ceased to covet, but had not 
ceased to repine. He had ceased to covet aught for himself, but still 
coveted much for his children ; and for him such a marriage as this 
which was now suggested for his son was encompassed almost with tha 
bitterness of death. " I think it would kill me," he had said to his 
wife ; " by heavens, I think it would be my death ! " 

A daughter of the archdeacon had made a splendid matrimonial 
alliance, so splendid that its history was at the time known to all the 
aristocracy of the county, and had not been altogether forgotten by any 
of those who keep themselves well instructed in the details of the 
peerage. Griselda Grantly had married Lord Dumbello, the eldest son 
of the Marquis of Hartletop, than whom no English nobleman was 
more puissant, if broad acres, many castles, high title, and stars and 
ribbons are any signs of puissance, and she was now, herself, Mar- 
chioness of Hartletop, with a little Lord Dumbello of her own. The 
daughter's visits to the parsonage of her father were of necessity rare, 
such necessity having come from her own altered sphere of life. A 
Marchioness of Hartletop has special duties which will hardly permit 
her to devote herself frequently to the humdrum society of a clerical 
father and mother. That it would be so, father and mother had under- 
stood when they sent the fortunate girl forth to a higher world. But, 
now and again, since her august marriage, she hacl laid her coroneted 
head upon one of the old rectory pillows for a night or so, and on such 
occasions all the Plumsteadians had been loud in praise of her con- 
descension. Now it happened, that when this second and more aggra- 
vated blast of the evil wind reached the rectory, the renewed waft of 
the tidings as to Major Grantly's infatuation regarding Miss Grace 
Crawley, which, on its renewal, seemed to bring with it something of 
confirmation, it chanced, I say, that at that moment Griselda, Mar- 
chioness of Hartletop, was gracing the paternal mansion. It need 
hardly be said that the father was not slow to invoke such a daughter's 
counsel, and such a sister's aid. 

I am not quite sure that the mother would have been equally quick 
to ask her daughter's advice, had she been left in the matter entirely 
to her own propensities. Mrs. Grantly had ever loved her daughter 
dearly, and had been very proud of that great success in life which 
Griselda had achieved ; but in late years, the child had become, as 
a woman, separate from the mother, and there had arisen, not unna- 
turally, a break of that close confidence which in early years had 


existed between them. Griselda, Marchioness of Hartletop, was more 
than ever a daughter to the archdeacon, even though he might never 
see her. Nothing could rob him of the honour of such a progeny, 
nothing, even though there had been actual estrangement between 
them. But it was not so with Mrs. Grantly. Griselda had done very 
well, and Mrs. Grantly had rejoiced ; but she had lost her child. Now 
the major, who had done well also, though in a much lesser degree, was 
still her child, moving in the same sphere of life with her, still depen- 
dent in a great degree upon his father's bounty, a neighbour in the 
county, a frequent visitor at the parsonage, and a visitor who could be 
received without any of that trouble which attended the unfrequent 
comings of Griselda, the marchioness, to the home of her youth. And 
for this reason Mrs. Grantly, terribly put out as she was at the idea 
of a marriage between her son and one standing so poorly in the 
world's esteem as Grace Crawley, would not have brought forward the 
matter before her daughter, had she been left to her own desires. A 
marchioness in one's family is a tower of strength, no doubt ; but there 
are counsellors so strong that we do not wish to trust them, lest in 
the trusting we ourselves be overwhelmed by their strength. Now 
Mrs. Grantly was by no means willing to throw her influence into the 
hands of her titled daughter. 

But the titled daughter was consulted and gave her advice. On the 
occasion of the present visit to Plumstead she had consented to lay her 
head for two nights on the parsonage pillows, and on the second evening 
her brother the major was to come over from Cosby Lodge to maet 
her. Before his coming the affair of Grace Crawley was discussed. 

" It would break my heart, Griselda," said the archdeacon, piteously 
" and your mother's." 

" There is nothing against the girl's character," said Mrs. Grantly, 
" and the father and mother are gentlefolks by birth ; but such a mar- 
riage for Henry would be very unseemly." 

" To make it worse, there is this terrible story about him," said the 

" I don't suppose there is much in that," said Mrs. Grantly. 

" I can't say. There is no knowing. They told me to-day in Bar- 
chester that Soames is pressing the case against him." 

" Who is Soames, papa ? " asked the marchioness. 

" He is Lord Lufton's man of business, my dear." 

" Oh, Lord Lufton's man of business ! " There was something 
of a sneer in the tone of the lady's voice as she mentioned Lord 
Lufton's name. 


" I am told," continued the archdeacon, " that Soames declares the 
cheque was taken from a pocket-book which he left by accident in 
Crawley's house." 

" You don't mean to say, archdeacon, that you think that Mr. 
Crawley a clergyman stole it !" said Mrs. Grantly. 

" I don't say anything^ of the kind, my dear. But supposing Mr. 
Crawley to be as honest as the sun, you wouldn't wish Henry to marry 
his daughter." 

" Certainly not," said the mother. " It would be an unfitting mar- 
riage. The poor girl has had no advantages." 

"He is not able even to pay his baker's bill. I always thought 
Arabin was very wrong to place such a man in such a parish as Hoggle- 
stock. Of course the family could not live there." The Arabin here 
spoken of was Dr. Arabin, dean of Barchester. The dean and the 
archdeacon had married sisters, and there was much intimacy between 
the families. 

" After all it is only a rumour as yet," said Mrs. Grantly. 

" Fothergill told me only yesterday, that he sees her almost every 
day," said the father. " What are we to do, Griselda ? You know 
how headstrong Henry is." The marchioness sat quite still ; looking 
at the fire, and made no immediate answer to this address. 

" There is nothing for it, but that you should tell him what you 
think," said the mother. 

" If his sister were to speak to him, it might do much," said the 
archdeacon. To this Mrs. Grantly said nothing ; but Mrs. Grantly's 
daughter understood very well that her mother's confidence in her was 
not equal to her father's. Lady Hartletop said nothing, but still sat r 
with impassive face, and eyes fixed upon the fire. " I think that if you- 
were to speak to him, Griselda, and tell him that he would disgrace hi& 
femily, he would be ashamed to go on with such a marriage," said the 
father. "He would feel, connected as he is with Lord Hartletop " 

"I don't think he would feel anything about that," said Mrs. Grantly. 

" I dare say not," said Lady Hartletop. 

" I am sure he ought to feel it," said the father. They were all 
silent, and sat looking at the fire. 

" I suppose, papa, you allow Henry an income," said Lady Hartle- 
top, after a while. 

" Indeed I do, eight hundred a year." 

" Then I think I should tell him that that must depend upon his 
conduct. Mamma, if you won't mind ringing the bell, I will send for 
Cecile, and go upstairs and dress." Then the marchioness went upstairs 


to dress, and in about an hour the major arrived in his dog-cart. He 
also was allowed to go upstairs to dress before anything was said to him 
about his great offence. 

" Griselda is right," said the archdeacon, speaking to his wife out 
of his dressing-room. " She always was right. I never knew a young 
woman with more sense than Griselda." 

" But you do not mean to say that in any event you would stop 
Henry's income ? " Mrs. Grantly also was dressing, and made reply 
out of her bedroom. 

" Upon my word, I don't know. As a father I would do anything 
to prevent such a marriage as that." 

" But if he did marry her in spite of the threat ? And he would if 
he had once said so." 

"Is a father's word, then, to go for nothing; and a father who allows 
his son eight hundred a year? If he told the girl that he would be 
ruined she couldn't hold him to it." 

" My dear, they'd know as well as I do, that you would give way 
after three months." 

" But why should I give way ? Good heavens ! " 

' ' Of course you'd give way, and of course we should have the young 
woman here, and of course we should make the best of it." 

The idea of having Grace Crawley as a daughter at the Plumstead 
Rectory was too much for the archdeacon, and he resented it by 
additional vehemence in the tone of his voice, and a nearer personal 
approach to the wife of his bosom. All unaccoutred as he was, he 
stood in the doorway between the two rooms, and thence fulminated at 
his wife his assurances that he would never allow himself to be immersed 
in such a depth of humility as that she had suggested. "I can tell you 
this, then, that if ever she comes here, I shall take care to be away. I 
will never receive her here. You can do as you please." 

" That is just what I cannot do. If I could do as I pleased, I 
would put a stop to it at once." 

" It seems to me that you want to encourage him. A child about 
sixteen years of age ! " 

" I am told she is nineteen." 

"What does it matter if she was fifty-nine ? Think of what her 
bringing up has been. Think what it would be to have all the Crawleys 
in our house for ever, and all their debts, and all their disgrace ! " 

" I do not know that they have ever been disgraced." 

"You'll see. The whole county has heard of the affair of this 
twenty pounds. Look at that dear girl upstairs, who has been such a 


comfort to us. Do you think it would be fit that she and her husband 
should meet such a one as Grace Crawley at our table ? " 

"I don't think it would do them a bit of harm," said Mrs. Grantly. 
" But there would be no chance of that, seeing that Griselda's husband 
never comes to us." 

" He was here the year before last." 
" And I never was so tired of a man in all my life." 
" Then you prefer the Crawleys, I suppose. This is what you get 
from Eleanor's teaching." Eleanor was the dean's wife, and Mrs. 
Grantly's younger sister. " It has always been a sorrow to me that 
I ever brought Arabin into the diocese." 

" I never asked you to bring him, archdeacon. But nobody was so 
glad as you when he proposed to Eleanor." 

" Well, the long and the short of it is this, I shall tell Henry to- 
night that if he makes a fool of himself with this girl, he must not look 
to me any longer for an income. He has about six hundred a year of 
his own, and if he chooses to throw himself away, he had better go and 
live in the south of France, or in Canada, or where he pleases. He 
shan't come here." 

" I hope he won't many the girl, with all my heart," said Mrs. Grantly. 
" He had better not. By heavens, he had better not ! " 
" But if he does, you'll be the first to forgive him." 
On hearing this the archdeacon slammed the door, and retired to 
his washing apparatus. At the present moment he was very angry with 
his wife, but then he was so accustomed to such anger, and was so well 
aware that it in truth meant nothing, that it did not make him unhappy. 
The archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly had now been man and wife for more 
than a quarter of a century, and had never in truth quarrelled. He 
had the most profound respect for her judgment, and the most implicit 
reliance on her conduct. She had never yet offended him, or caused 
him to repent the hour in which he had made her Mrs. Grantly. But 
she had come to understand that she might use a woman's privilege* 
with her tongue ; and she used it, not altogether to his comfort. On 
the present occasion he was the more annoyed because he felt that she- 
might be right. " It would be a positive disgrace, and I never would 
see him again," he said to himself. And yet as he said it, he knew that 
he would not have the strength of character to carry him through a 
prolonged quarrel with his son. " I never would see her, never, 
never ! " he said to himself. " And then such an opening as he might 
have at his sister's house." 

Major Grantly had been a successful man in life, with the ono 
i. o 


exception of having lost the mother of his child within a twelvemonth 
of his marriage and within a few hours of that child's birth. He had 
served in India as a very young man, and had been decorated with the 
Victoria Cross. Then he had married a lady with some money, and 
had left the active service of the army, with the concurring advice of 
his own family and that of his wife. He had taken a small place in 
his father's county, but the wife for whose comfort he had taken it had 
died before she was permitted to see it. Nevertheless he had gone to 
reside there, hunting a good deal and farming a little, making himself 
popular in the district, and keeping up the good name of Grantly in a 
successful way, till alas, it had seemed good to him to throw those 
favouring eyes on poor Grace Crawley. His wife had now been dead 
just two years, and as he was still under thirty, no one could deny it 
would be right that he should marry again. No one did deny it. His 
father had hinted that he ought to do so, and had generously whispered 
that if some little increase to the major's present income were needed, 
he might possibly be able to do something. " What is the good of 
keeping it ? " the archdeacon had said in liberal after-dinner warmth ; 
"I only want it for your brother and yourself." The brother was a 

And the major's mother had strongly advised him to marry again 
without loss of time. " My dear Henry," she had said, " you'll 
never be younger, and youth does go for something. As for dear little 
Edith, being a girl, she is almost no impediment. Do you know those 
two girls at Chaldicotes ? " 

" What, Mrs. Thome's nieces ? " 

" No ; they are not her nieces but her cousins. Emily Dunstable 
is rc.rj handsome ; and as for money ! " 

" But what about birth, mother ? " 

" One can't have everything, my dear." 

" As far as I am concerned, I should like to have everything or 
nothing," the major had said laughing. Now for him to think of 
Grace Crawley after that, of Grace Crawley who had no money, and 
no particular birth, and not even beauty itself, so at least Mrs. Grantly 
said, who had not even enjoyed the ordinary education of a lady, was 
too bad. Nothing had been wanting to Emily Dunstable's education, 
and it was calculated that she would have at least twenty thousand 
pounds on the day of her marriage. 

The disappointment to the mother would be the more sore because 
she had gone to work upon her little scheme with reference to Miss 
Emily Dunstable, and had at first, as she thought, seen her way to 


success, to success in spite of the disparaging words which her son had 
spoken to her. Mrs. Thome's house at Chaldicotes, or Dr. Thome's 
house as it should, perhaps, be more properly called, for Dr. Thome 
was the hushand of Mrs. Thorne, was in these days the pleasantest 
house in Barsetshire. No one saw so much company as the Thornes, 
or spent so much money in so pleasant a way. The great county 
families, the Pallisers and the De Courcys, the Luftons and the 
Greshams, were no doubt grander, and some of them were perhaps 
richer than the Chaldicote Thornes, as they were called to distinguish 
them from the Thornes of Ullathorne ; but none of these people were so 
pleasant in their ways, so free in their hospitality, or so easy in their 
modes of living, as the doctor and his wife. When first Chaldicotes, a 
very old country seat, had by the chances of war fallen into their hands 
and been newly furnished, and newly decorated, and newly gardened, 
and newly greenhoused and hot-watered by them, many of the county 
people had turned up their noses at them. Dear old Lady Lufton had 
done so, and had been greatly grieved, saying nothing, however, of her 
grief, when her son and daughter-in-law had broken away from her, and 
submitted themselves to the blandishments of the doctor's wife. And 
the Grantlys had stood aloof, partly influenced, no doubt, by their 
dear and intimate old friend Miss Monica Thorne of Ullathorne, a lady 
of the very old school, who, though good as gold and kind as charity, 
could not endure that an interloping Mrs. Thorne, who never had a 
grandfather, should come to honour and glory in the county, simply 
because of her riches. Miss Monica Thorne stood out, but Mrs. Grantly 
gave way, and having once given way found that Dr. Thome, and 
Mrs. Thorne, and Emily Dunstable, and Chaldicote House together, 
were very charming. And the major had been once there with her, 
and had made himself very pleasant, and there had certainly been 
some little passage of incipient love between him and Miss Dunstable, 
as to which Mrs. Thorne, who managed everything, seemed to be well 
pleased. This had been after the first mention made by Mrs. Grantly 
to her son of Emily Dunstable's name, but before she had heard any 
faintest whispers of his fancy for Grace Crawley ; and she had therefore 
been justified in hoping, almost in expecting, that Emily Dunstable 
would be her daughter-in-law, and was therefore the more aggrieved 
when this terrible Crawley peril first opened itself before her eyes. 



THE dinner - party at the rectory comprised none but the Grantly 
family. The marchioness had written to say that she preferred to 
have it so. The father had suggested that the Thornes of Ullathorne, 
very old friends, might be asked, and the Gresharns from Boxall Hill, 
and had even promised to endeavour to get old Lady Luffcon over to 
the rectory, Lady Lufton having in former years been Griselda's warm 
friend. But Lady Hartletop had preferred to see her dear father and 
mother in privacy. Her brother Henry she would be glad to meet, and 
hoped to make some arrangement with him for a short visit to Hartle- 
bury, her husband's place in Shropshire, as to which latter hint, it 
may, however, be at once said, that nothing further was spoken after 
the Crawley alliance had been suggested. And there had been a very 
sore point mooted by the daughter in a request made by her to her 
father that she might not be called upon to meet her grandfather, her 
mother's father, Mr. Harding, a clergyman of Barchester, who was now 
stricken in years. " Papa would not have come," said Mrs. Grantly, 
" but I think, I do think " Then she stopped herself. 

" Your father has odd ways sometimes, my dear. You know how 
fond I am of having him here myself." 

"It does not signify," said Mrs. Grantly. "Do not let us say 
anything more about it. Of course we cannot have everything. I am 
told the child does 'her duty in her sphere of life, and I suppose we 
ought to be contented." Then Mrs. Grantly Yfent up to her own room, 
and there she cried. Nothing was said to the major on the unpleasant 
subject of the Crawleys before dinner. He met his sister in the drawing- 
room, and was allowed to kiss her noble cheek. " I hope Edith is well, 
Henry," said the sister. " Quite well ; and little Dumbello is the same, 
I hope ? " " Thank you, yes ; quite well." Then there seemed to be 
nothing more to be said between the two. The major never made 
inquiries after the august family, or would allow it to appear that he was 
conscious of being shone upon by the wife of a marquis. Any adulation 
which Griselda received of that kind came from her father, and, there- 
fore, unconsciously she had learned to think that her father was better 
bred than the other members of her family, and more fitted by nature 


to move in that sacred circle to which she herself had been exalted. 
We need not dwell upon the dinner, which was but a dull affair. 
Mrs. Grantly strove to carry on the family party exactly as it would 
have been carried on had her daughter married the son of some neigh- 
bouring squire ; but she herself was conscious of the struggle, and the 
fact of there being a struggle produced failure. The rector's servants 
treated the daughter of the house with special awe, and the marchioness 
herself moved, and spoke, and ate, and drank with a cold magnificence, 
which I think had become a second nature with her, but which was 
not on that account the less oppressive. Even the archdeacon, who 
enjoyed something in that which was so disagreeable to his wife, felt a 
relief when he was left alone after dinner with his son. He felt relieved 
as his son got up to open the door for his mother and sister, but was 
aware at the same time that he had before him a most difficult and 
possibly a most disastrous task. His dear son Henry was not a man to 
be talked smoothly out of, or into, any propriety. He had a will of his 
own, and having hitherto been a successful man, who in youth had 
fallen into few youthful troubles,- who had never justified his father in 
using stern parental authority, was not now inclined to bend his 
neck. " Henry," said the archdeacon, " what are you drinking ? 
That's '84 port, but it's not just what it should be. Shall I send for 
another bottle ? " , 

" It will do for me, sir. I shall only take a glass." 

" I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you young 
fellows have become so desperately temperate." 

" We take our wine at dinner, sir." 

" By-the-by, how well Griselda is looking." 

" Yes, she is. It's always easy for women to look well when they're 
rich." How would Grace Crawley look, then, who was poor as poverty 
itself, and who should remain poor, if his son was fool enough to marry 
her ? That was the train of thought which ran through the arch- 
deacon's mind. "I do not think much of riches," said he, "but it 
is always well that a gentleman's wife or a gentleman's daughter 
should have a sufficiency to maintain her position in life." 

" You may say the same, sir, of everybody's wife and everybody's 

" You know what I mean, Henry." 

" I am not quite sure that I do, sir." 

" Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A rumour has reached 
your mother and me, which we don't believe for a moment, but which, 
nevertheless, makes us unhappy even as a report. They say that there 


is a young woman living in Silverbridge to whom you are becoming 

" Is there any reason why I should not become attached to a young 
woman in Silverbridge ? though I hope any young woman to whom 
I may become attached will be worthy at any rate of being called a 
young lady." 

" I hope so, Henry ; I hope so. I do hope so." 

" So much I will promise, sir ; but I will promise nothing more." 

The archdeacon looked across into his son's face, and his heart sank 
within him. His son's voice and his son's eyes seemed to tell him two 
things. They seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumour about Grace 
Crawley was true ; and, secondly, that the major was resolved not to be 
talked out of his folly. " But you are not engaged to any one, are 
you?" said the archdeacon. The son did not at first make any answer, 
and then the father repeated the question. " Considering our mutual 
positions, Henry, I think you ought to tell me if you are engaged." 

" I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should have taken the 
first opportunity of telling either you or my mother." 

" Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out more plain!}-. 
The young woman whose name I have heard is daughter to that 
Mr. Crawley who is perpetual curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there 
could be nothing in it." 

" But there is something in it, sir." 

" What is there in it ? Do not keep me in suspense, Henry. "What 
is it 3 r ou mean ?" 

"It is rather hard to be cross- questioned in this way on such a 
subject. YvTien you express yourself as thankful that there is nothing 
in the rumour, I am forced to stop you, as otherwise it is possible that 
hereafter you may say that I have deceived you." 

" But you don't mean to marry her ? " 

" I certainly do not mean to pledge myself not to do so." 

" Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that you are in love with Miss 
Crawley ? " Then there was another pause, during whicB the archdeacon 
sat looking for an answer ; but the major said never a word. " Arn I to 
suppose that you intend to lower yourself by marrying a young woman 
who cannot possibly have enjoyed any of the advantages of a lady's edu- 
cation ? I say nothing of the imprudence of the thing ; nothing of her 
own want of fortune ; nothing of your having to maintain a whole family 
steeped in poverty ; nothing of the debts and character of the father, 
upon whom, as I understand, at this moment there rests a very grave 
suspicion of of of what I'm afraid I must call downright theft." 


" Downright theft, certainly, if he were guilty." 

" I say nothing of all that ; but looking at the young woman 
herself " 

" She is simply the best educated girl whom it has ever been my 
lot to meet." 

" Henry, I have a right to expect that you will be honest with me." 

" I am honest with you." 

" Do you mean to ask this girl to marry you ? " 

" I do not think that you have any right to ask me that question, sir." 

" I have a right at any rate to tell you this, that if you so far 
disgrace yourself and me, I shall consider myself bound to withdraw 
from you all the sanction which would be conveyed by my my 
rny continued assistance." 

" Do you intend me to understand that you will stop my income ?" 

" Certainly I should." 

" Then, sir, I think you would behave to me most cruelly. You 
advised me to give up my profession." 

" Not in order that you might marry Grace Crawley." 

" I claim the privilege of a man of my age to do as I please in 
such a matter as marriage. Miss Crawley is a lady. Her father is a 
clergyman, as is mine. Her father's oldest friend is my uncle. There 
is nothing on earth against her except her poverty. I do not think I 
ever heard of such cruelty on a father's part." 

" Very well, Henry." 

" I have .endeavoured to do my duty by you, sir, always ; and by 
my mother. You can treat me in this way, if you please, but it will 
not have any effect on my conduct. You can stop my allowance 
to-morrow, if you like it. I had not as yet made up my mind to make 
an offer to Miss Crawley, but I shall no^v do so to-morrow morning." 

This was very bad indeed, and the archdeacon was extremely 
unhappy. He was by no means at heart a cruel man. He loved his 
children dearly. If this disagreeable marriage were to take place, hs 
would doubtless do exactly as his wife had predicted. He would not 
stop his son's income for a single quarter; and, though he went on 
telling himself that he would stop it, he knew in his own heart that any 
such severity was beyond his power. He was a generous man in money 
matters, having a dislike for poverty which was not generous, and for 
his own sake could not have endured to see a son of his in want. But 
he was terribly anxious to exercise the power which the use of the 
threat might give him. " Henry," he said, " you are treating me 
badly, very badly. My anxiety has always been for the welfare of my 


children. Do you think that Miss Crawley would be a fitting sister-in- 
law for that dear girl upstairs ? " 

" Certainly I do, or for any other dear girl in the world ; excepting 
that Griselda, who is not clever, would hardly be able to appreciate 
Miss Crawley, who is clever." 

" Griselda not clever ! Good heavens ! " Then there was another 
pause, and as the major said nothing, the father continued his entreaties. 
" Pray, pray think of what my wishes are, and your mother's. You 
are not committed as yet. Pray think of us while there is time. I 
would rather double your income if I saw you marry any one that wo 
could name here." 

" I have enough as it is, if I may only be allowed to know that it 
will not be capriciously withdrawn." The archdeacon filled his glass 
unconsciously, and sipped his wine, while he thought what further he 
might say. Perhaps it might be better that he should say nothing 
further at the present moment. The major, however, was indiscreet, 
and pushed the question. " May I understand, sir, that your threat is 
withdrawn, and that my income is secure ?" 

" What, if you marry this girl ? " 

" Yes, sir ; will my income be continued to me if I many Miss 
Crawley ? " 

"No, it will not." Then the father got up hastily, pushed the 
decanter back angrily from his hand, and without saying another word 
walked ^away into the drawing-room. That evening at the rectory was 
very gloomy. The archdeacon now and again said a word or two to 
his daughter, and his daughter answered him in monosyllables. The 
major sat apart moodily, and spoke to no one. Mrs. Grantly, under- 
standing well what had passed, knew that nothing could be done at 
the present moment to restore family comfort ; so she sat by the fire 
and knitted. Exactly at ten they all went to bed. 

" Dear Henry," said the mother to her son the next morning ; 
" think much of yourself, and of your child, and of us, before you take 
any great step in life." 

" I will, mother," said he. Then he went out and put on his 
wrapper, and got into his dog- cart, and drove himself off to Silverbridgo. 
He had not spoken to his father since they were in the dining-room on 
the previous evening. When he started, the marchioness had not yet 
come downstairs ; but at eleven she breakfasted, and at twelve she 
also was taken away. Poor Mrs. Grantly had not had much comfort 
from her children's visits. 


BS. CRAWLEY had walked 
from Hogglestock to Silver- 
bridge on the occasion of 
her visit to Mr. Walker, the 
attorney, and had been kindly 
sent back by that gentleman in 
his wife's little open carriage. 
The tidings she brought home 
with her to her husband were 
very grievous. The magistrates 
would sit on the next Thursday, 
it was then Friday, and 
Mr. Crawley had better appeal- 
before them to answer the 
charge made by Mr. Soames. 
He would be served with a 
summons, which he could obey 
of his own accord. There had 
been many points very closely 

discussed between Walker and Mrs. Crawley, as to which there 
had been great difficulty in the choice of words which should be 
tender enough in regard to the feelings of the poor lady, and yet 
strong enough to convey to her the very facts as they stood. Would 
Mr. Crawley come, or must a policeman be sent to fetch him ? The 
magistrates had already issued a warrant for his apprehension. Such 
in truth was the fact, but they had agreed with Mr. Walker, that as 
there was no reasonable ground for anticipating any attempt at escape 
on the part of the reverend gentleman, the lawyer might use what 
gentle means he could for ensuring the clergyman's attendance. Could 
Mrs. Crawley undertake to say that he would appear ? Mrs. Crawley 
did undertake either that her husband should appear on the Thursday, or 
else that she would send over in the early part of the week and declare 
her inability to ensure his appearance. In-that case it was understood 

II. D 


the policeman must come. Then Mr. Walker had suggested that 
Mr. Crawley had better employ a lawyer. Upon this Mrs. Crawley had 
looked beseechingly up into Mr. Walker's face, and had asked him to 
undertake the duty. He was of course obliged to explain that he was 
already employed on the other side. Mr. Soames had secured his ser- 
vices, and though he was willing to do all in his power to mitigate 
the sufferings of the family, he could not abandon the duty he had 
undertaken. He named another attorney, however, and then sent the 
poor woman home in his wife's carriage. " I fear that unfortunate 
man is guilty. I fear he is," Mr. Walker had said to his wife within 
ten minutes of the departure of the visitor. 

Mrs. Crawley would not allow herself to be driven up to the garden 
gate before her own house, but had left the carriage some three hundred 
yards off down the road, and from thence she walked home. It was now 
quite dark. It was nearly six in the evening on a wet December night, 
and although cloaks and shawls had been supplied to her, she was wet 
and cold when she reached her home. But at such a moment, anxious 
as she was to prevent the additional evil which would come to them all 
from illness to herself, she could not pass through to her room till she 
had spoken to her husband. He was sitting in the one sitting-room 
on the left side of the passage as the house was entered, and with 
him was their daughter Jane, a girl now nearly sixteen years of age. 
There was no light in the room, and hardly more than a spark of 
fire showed itself in the grate. The father was sitting on one side 
of the hearth, in an old arm-chair, and there he had sat for the 
last hour without speaking. His daughter had been in and out of 
the room, and had endeavoured to gain his attention now and again 
by a word, but he had never answered her, and had not even noticed 
her presence. At the moment when Mrs. Crawley's step was heard 
upon the gravel which l6d to the door, Jane was kneeling before the 
fire with a hand upon her father's arm. She had tried to get her 
hand into his, but he had either been unaware of the attempt, or had 
rejected it. 

" Here is mamma, at last," said Jane, rising to her feet as her 
mother entered the house. 

" Are you all in the dark ? " said Mrs. Crawley, striving to speak 
in a voice that should "not be sorrowful. 

" Yes, mamma ; we are in the dark. Papa is here. Oh, mamma, 
how wet you are ! " 

" Yes, dear. It is raining. Get a light out of the kitchen, Jane, 
and I will go upstairs in two minutes." Then, when Jane was gone, 


the wife made her way in the dark over to her husband's side, and 
spoke a word to him. " Josiah," she said, " will you not speak 
to me ? " 

" What should I speak about ? "Where have you been ? " 

" I have been to Silverbridge. I have been to Mr. Walker. He, 
at any rate, is very kind." 

" I don't want his kindness. I want no man's kindness. Mr. Walker 
is the attorney, I believe. Kind, indeed 1 " 

" I mean considerate. Josiah, let us do the best we can in this 
trouble. We have had others as heavy before." 

" But none to crush me as this will crush me. Well ; what am I 
to do ? Am I to go to prison to-night ? " At this moment his 
daughter returned with a candle, and the mother could not make her 
ansvfer at once. It was a wretched, poverty-stricken room. By degrees 
the carpet had disappeared, which had been laid down some nine or 
ton years since, when they had first come to Hogglestock, and which 
even then had not been new. Now nothing but a poor fragment of it 
remained in front of the fire-place. In the middle of the room there 
was a table which had once been large ; but one flap of it was gone 
altogether, and the other flap sloped grievously towards the floor, the 
weakness of old age having fallen into its legs. There were two or 
three smaller tables about, but they stood propped against walls, thence 
obtaining a security which their own strength would not give them. 
At the further end of the room there was an ancient piece of furniture, 
which was always called " papa's secretary," at which Mr. Crawley 
customarily sat and wrote his sermons, and did all work that was done 
by him within his house. The man who had made it, some time in 
the last century, had intended it to be a locked guardian for domestic 
documents, and the receptacle for all that was most private in the 
house of some paterfamilias. But beneath the hands of Mr. Crawley 
it always stood open ; and with the exception of the small space at 
which he wrote, was covered with dog's-eared books, from nearly all of 
which the covers had disappeared. There were there two odd volumes 
of Euripides, a Greek Testament, an Odyssey, a duodecimo Pindar, 
and a miniature Anacreon. There was half a Horace, the two first 
books of the Odes at the beginning, and the De Arte Poetica at the end 
having disappeared. There was a little bit of a volume of Cicero, and 
there were Cassar's Commentaries, in two volumes, so stoutly bound 
that they had defied the combined ill-usage of time and the Crawley 
family. All these were piled upon the secretary, with many others, 
odd volumes of sermons and the like ; but the Greek and Latin lay at 

D 2 


the top, and showed signs of most frequent use. There was one arm- 
chair in the room, a Windsor- chair, as such used to be called, made soft 
by an old cushion in the back, in which Mr. Crawley sat when both he 
and his wife were in the room, and Mrs. Crawley when he was absent. 
And there was an old horsehair sofa, now almost denuded of its horse- 
hair, but that, like the tables, required the assistance of a friendly 
wall. Then there was half a dozen of other chairs, all of different 
sorts, and they completed the furniture of the room. It was not such 
a room as one would wish to see inhabited by a beneficed clergyman 
of the Church of England ; but they who know what money will do 
and what it will not, will understand how easily a man with a family, 
and with a hundred and thirty pounds a year, may be brought to the 
need of inhabiting such a chamber. When it is remembered that three 
pounds of meat a day, at ninepence a pound, will cost over forty pounds 
a year, there need be no difficulty in understanding that it may be so. 
Bread for such a family must cost at least twenty-five pounds. Clothes 
for five persons, of whom one must at any rate wear the raiment of a 
gentleman, can hardly be found for less than ten pounds a year a head. 
Then there remains fifteen pounds for tea, sugar, beer, wages, educa- 
tion, amusements, and the like. In such circumstances a gentleman 
can hardly pay much for the renewal of his furniture ! 

Mrs. Crawley could not answer her husband's question before her 
daughter, and was therefore obliged to make another excuse for again 
sending her out of the room. " Jane, dear," she said, " bring my 
things down to the kitchen and I will change them by the fire. I will 
be there in two minutes, when I have had a word with your papa." 
The girl went immediately and then Mrs. Crawley answered her hus- 
band's question. ''No, my dear; there is no question of your going 
to prison." 

" But there will be." 

" I have undertaken that you shall attend before the magistrates at 
Bilverbridge on Thursday next, at twelve o'clock. You will do that ? " 

"Do it ! You mean, I suppose, to say that I must go there. Is 
anybody to come and fetch me ? " 

" Nobody will come. Only you must promise that you will be 
there. I have promised for you. You will go ; will you not ? " She 
stood leaning over him, half embracing him, waiting for an answer ; 
but for a while he gave none. " You will tell me that you will do what 
I have undertaken for you, Josiah ? " 

" I think I would rather that they fetched me. I think that I will 
not go myself." 


"And have policemen come for you into the parish ! Mr. Walker 
has promised that he will send over his phaeton. He sent rne home in 
it to-day." 

"I want nobody's phaeton. If I go I will walk. If it were ten 
times the distance, and though I had not a shoe left to my feet I would 
walk. If I go there at all, of my own accord, I will walk there." 

" But you will go ? " 

" What do I care for the parish ? What matters it who sees me 
now ? I cannot be degraded worse than I am. Everybody knows it." 

" There is no disgrace without guilt," said his wife. 

" Everybody thinks me guilty. I see it in their eyes. The children 
know of it, and I hear their whispers in the school, ' Mr. Crawley has 
taken some money.' I heard the girl say it myself." 

" What matters what the girl says ? " 

"And yet you would have me go in a fine carnage to Silverbridge, 
as though to a wedding. If I am wanted there let them take me as 
they would another. I shall be here for them, unless I am dead." 

At this moment Jane reappeared, pressing her mother to take off 
her wet clothes, and Mrs. Crawley went with her daughter to the 
kitchen. The one red-armed young girl who was their only servant 
was sent away, and then the mother and child discussed how best they 
might prevail with the head of the family. "But, mamma, it must 
come right ; must it not ? " 

" I trust it will. I think it will. But I cannot see my way as yet." 

" Papa cannot have done anything wrong." 

" No, my dear ; he has done nothing wrong. He has made great 
mistakes, and it is hard to make people understand that he has not 
intentionally spoken untruths. He is ever thinking of other things, 
about the school, and his sermons, and he does not remember." 

"And about how poor we are, mamma." 

"He has much to occupy his mind, and he forgets things which 
dwell in the memory with other people. He said that he had got this 
money from Mr. Soames, and of course he thought that it was so." 

" And where did he get it, mamma ? " 

" Ah, I wish I knew. I should have said that I had seen every 
shilling that came into the house ; but I know nothing of this cheque, 
whence it came." 

" But will not papa tell you ? " 

"He would tell me if he knew. He thinks it came from the dean." 

" And are you sure it did not ? " 

"Yes; quite sure; as sure as lean be of anything. The dean 


told me lie would give him fifty pounds, and the fifty pounds came. I 
had them in my own hands. And he has written to say that it was so," 

" But couldn't this be part of the fifty pounds ? " 

"No, dear, no." 

" Then where did papa get it ? Perhaps he picked it up, and has 

To this Mrs. Crawley made no reply. The idea that the cheque 
had heen found by her husband, had been picked up as Jane had said, 
had occurred also to Jane's mother. Mr. Soames was confident that 
he had dropped the pocket-book at the parsonage. Mrs. Crawley had 
always disliked Mr. Soames, thinking him to be hard, cruel, and vulgar. 
She would not have hesitated to believe him guilty of a falsehood, or 
even of direct dishonesty, if by so believing she could in her own mind 
have found the means of reconciling her husband's possession of the 
cheque with absolute truth on his part. But she could not do so. 
Even though Soames had, with devilish premeditated malice, slipped 
the cheque into her husband's pocket, his having done so would not 
account for her husband's having used the cheque when he found it 
there. She was driven to make excuses for him which, valid as they 
might be with herself, could not be valid with others. He had said 
that Mr. Soames had paid the cheque to him. That was clearly a 
mistake. He had said that the cheque had been given to him by the 
dean. That was clearly another mistake. She knew, or thought she 
knew, that he, being such as he was, might make such blunders as 
these, and yet be true. She believed that such statements might be 
blunders and not falsehoods, so convinced was she that her husband's 
mind would not act at all times as do the minds of other men. But 
having such a conviction she was driven to believe also that almost 
anything might be possible. Soames may have been right, or he might 
have dropped, not the book, but the cheque. She had no difficulty 
in presuming Soames to be wrong in any detail, if by so supposing 
she could make the exculpation of her husband easier to herself. If 
villany on the part of Soames was needful to her theory, Soames 
would become to her a villain at once, of the blackest dye. Might 
it not be possible that the cheque having thus fallen into her hus- 
band's hands, he had come, after a while, to think that it had been 
sent to him by his friend, the dean ? And if it were so, would it be 
possible to make others so believe ? That there was some mistake 
which would be easily explained were her husband's mind lucid at all 
points, but which she could not explain because of the darkness of his 
mind, she was thoroughly convinced. But were she herself to put 


forward such a defence on her husband's part, she would in doing so 
be driven to say that he was a lunatic, that he was incapable of 
managing the affairs of himself or his family. It seemed to her that 
she would be compelled to have him proved to be either a thief or a 
madman. And yet she knew that he was neither. That he was not a 
thief was as clear to her as the sun at noonday. Could she have lain 
on the man's bosom for twenty years, and not yet have learned the 
secrets of the heart beneath ? The whole mind of the man was, as she 
told herself, within her grasp. He might have taken the twenty 
pounds ; he might have taken it and spent it, though it was not his 
own ; but yet he was no thief. Nor was he a madman. No man more 
sane in preaching the gospel of his Lord, in making intelligible to the 
ignorant the promises of his Saviour, ever got into a parish pulpit, or 
taught in a parish school. The intellect of the man was as clear as 
running water in all things not appertaining to his daily life and its 
difficulties. He could be logical with a vengeance, so logical as to cause 
infinite trouble to his wife, who, with all her good sense, was not logical. 
And he had Greek at his fingers' ends, as his daughter knew very well. 
And even to this day he would sometimes recite to them English poetry, 
lines after lines, stanzas upon stanzas, in a sweet low melancholy voice, 
on long winter evenings when occasionally the burden of his troubles 
would be lighter to him than was usual. Books in Latin and in French 
he read with as much ease as in English, and took delight in such as 
came to him, when he would condescend to accept such loans from the 
deaneiy. And there was at times a lightness of heart about the man. 
In the course of the last winter he had translated into Greek irregular 
verse the very noble ballad of Lord Bateman, maintaining the rhythm 
and the rhyme, and had repeated it with uncouth glee till his daughter 
knew it all by heart. And when there had come to him a five-pound 
note from some admiring magazine editor as the price of the same, 
still through the dean's hands, he had brightened up his heart and had 
thought for an hour or two that even yet the world would smile upon 
him. His wife knew well that he was not mad ; but yet she knew 
that there were dark moments with him, in which his mind was so 
much astray that he could not justly be called to account as to what he 
might remember and what he might forget. How would it be possible 
to explain all this to a judge and jury, so that they might neither say 
that he was dishonest, nor yet that he was mad ? " Perhaps he picked 
it up, and had forgotten," her daughter said to her. Perhaps it was so, 
but she might not as yet admit as much even to her child. 

"It is a mystery, dear, as yet, which, with God's aid, will be 


unravelled. Of one thing we at least may be sure ; that your papa has 
not wilfully done anything wrong." 

" Of course we are sure of that, mamma." 

Mrs. Crawley had many troubles during the next four or five days, 
of which the worst, perhaps, had reference to the services of the Sunday 
which intervened between the day of her visit to Silverbridge, and the 
sitting of the magistrates. On the Saturday it was necessary that he 
should prepare his sermons, of which he preached two on every Sunday, 
though his congregation consisted only of fanners, brickmakers, and 
agricultural labourers, who would willingly have dispensed with the 
second. Mrs. Crawley proposed to send over to Mr. Kobarts, a 
neighbouring clergyman, for the loan of a curate. Mr. Robarts was 
a warm friend to the Crawley s, and in such an emergency would 
probably have come himself ; but Mr. Crawley would not hear of it. 
The discussion took place early on the Saturday morning, before it was 
as yet daylight, for the poor woman was thinking day and night of her 
husband's troubles, and it had this good effect, that immediately after 
breakfast he seated himself at his desk, and worked at his task as 
though he had forgotten all else in the world. 

And on the Sunday morning he went into his school before the 
hour of the church service, as had been his wont, and taught there as 
though everything with him was as usual. Some of the children were 
absent, having heard of their teacher's tribulation, and having been told 
probably that he would remit his work ; and for these absent ones he 
sent in great anger. The poor bairns came creeping in, for he was a 
man who by his manners had been able to secure their obedience in 
spite of his poverty. And he preached to the people of his parish on 
that Sunday, as he had always preached ; eagerly, clearly, with an 
eloquence fitted for the hearts of such an audience. No one would 
have guessed from his tones "and gestures and appearance on that 
occasion, that there was aught wrong with him, unless there had 
been there some observer keen enough to perceive that the greater care 
which he used, and the special eagerness of his words, denoted a 
special frame of mind. 

After that, after those church services were over, he sank again and 
never roused himself till the dreaded day had come. 



OPINION in Silverbridge, at Barchester, and throughout the county, 
was very much divided as to the guilt or innocence of Mr. Crawley. Up 
to the time of Mrs. Crawley's- visit to Silverbridge, the affair had not 
been much discussed. To give Mr. Soames his due, he had been by 
no means anxious to press the matter against the clergyman ; but he 
had been forced to go on with it. While the first cheque was missing, 
Lord Lufton had sent him a second cheque for the money, and the loss 
had thus fallen upon his lordship. The cheque had of course been 
traced, and inquiry had of course been made as to Mr. Crawley's pos- 
session of it. When that gentleman declared that he had received it 
from Mr. Soames, Mr. Soames had been forced to contradict and to 
resent such an assertion. When Mr. Crawley had afterwards said that 
the money had come to him from the dean, and when the dean had 
shown that this also was untrue, Mr. Soames, confident as he was that 
he had dropped the pocket-book at Mr. Crawley's house, could not but 
continue the investigation. He had done so with as much silence as 
the nature of the work admitted. But by the day of the magistrates' 
meeting at Silverbridge the subject had become common through the 
county, and men's minds were very much divided. 

All Hogglestock believed their parson to be innocent ; but then all 
Hogglestock believed him to be mad. At Silverbridge the tradesmen 
with whom he had dealt, and to whom he had owed, and still owed, 
money, all declared him to be innocent. They knew something of the 
man personally, and could not believe him to be a thief. All the ladies 
in Silverbridge, too, were sure of his innocence. It was to them im- 
possible that such a man should have stolen twenty pounds. " My 
dear," said the eldest Miss Prettyman to poor Grace Crawley, " in 
England, where the laws are good, no gentleman is ever made out to be 
guilty when he is innocent ; and your papa, of course, is innocent. 
Therefore you should not trouble yourself." " It will break papa's 
heart," Grace had said, and she did trouble herself. But the gentlemen in 
Silverbridge were made of sterner stuff, and believed the man to be guilty, 
clergyman and gentleman though he was. Mr. Walker, who among 
the lights in Silverbridge was the leading light, would not speak a word 


upon the subject to anybody ; and then everybody, who was anybody, 
knew that Mr. Walker was convinced of the man's guilt. Had 
Mr. Walker believed him to be innocent, his tongue would have been 
ready enough. John Walker, who was in the habit of laughing at his 
father's good nature, had no doubt upon the subject. Mr. Winthrop, 
Mr. Walker's partner, shook his head. People did not think much of 
Mr. Winthrop, excepting certain unmarried ladies ; for Mr. Winthrop 
was a bachelor, and had plenty of money. People did not think much 
of Mr. Winthrop ; but still on this subject he might know something, 
and when he shook his head he manifestly intended to indicate guilt. 
And Dr. Tempest, the rector of Silverbridge, did not hesitate to declare 
his belief in the guilt of the incumbent of Hogglestock. No man 
reverences a clergyman, as a clergyman, so slightly as a brother clergy- 
man. To Dr. Tempest it appeared to be neither very strange nor very 
terrible that Mr. Crawley should have stolen twenty pounds. " What 
is a man to do," he said, "when he sees his children starving? He 
should not have married on such a preferment as that." Mr. Crawley 
had married, however, long before he got the living of Hogglestock. 

There were two Lady Luffcons, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, 
Avho at this time were living together at Framley Hall, Lord Lufton's 
seat in the county of Barset, and they were both thoroughly convinced 
of Mr. Crawley 's innocence. The elder lady had lived much among 
clergymen, and could hardly, I think, by any means have been brought 
to believe in the guilt of any man who had taken upon himself the 
orders of the Church of England. She had also known Mr. Crawley 
personally for some years, and was one of those who could not admit 
to herself that any one was vile who had been near to herself. She 
believed intensely in the wickedness of the outside world, of the world 
which was far away from herself, and of which she never saw anything ; 
but they who were near to her, and who had even become dear to her, or 
who even had been respected by her, were made, as it were, saints in her 
imagination. They were brought into the inner circle, and could hardly 
be expelled. She was an old woman who thought all evil of those she 
did not know, and all good of those whom she did know ; and as she 
did know Mr. Crawley, she was quite sure he had not stolen Mr. Soames's 
twenty pounds. She did know Mr. Soames also ; and thus there was 
a mystery for the unravelling of which she was very anxious. And the 
young Lady Lufton was equally sure, and perhaps with better reason 
for such certainty. She had, in truth, known more of Mr. Crawley 
personally, than had any one in the county, unless it was the dean. The 
younger Lady Lufton, the present Lord Lufton's wife, had sojourned at 


one time in Mr. Crawley's house, amidst the Crawley poverty, living as 
they lived, and nursing Mrs. Crawley through an illness which had well 
nigh been fatal to her ; and the younger Lady Lufton believed in 
Mr. Crawley, as Mr. Crawley also believed in her. 

"It is quite impossible, my dear," the old woman said to her 

" Quite impossible, my lady." The dowager was always called 
" my lady," both by her own daughter and by her son's wife, except in 
the presence of their children, when she was addressed as "grand- 
mamma." " Think how well I knew him. It's no use talking of 
evidence. No evidence would make me believe it." 

" Nor me ; and I think it a great shame that such a report should 
be spread about." 

" I suppose Mr. Soames could not help himself ? " said the younger 
lady, who was not herself very fond of Mr. Soames. 

" Ludovic says that he has only done what he was obliged to do." 
The Ludovic spoken of was Lord Lufton. 

This took place in the morning, but in the evening the affair was 
again discussed at Framley Hall. Indeed, for some days, there was 
hardly any other subject held to be worthy of discussion in the county. 
Mr. Eobarts, the clergyman of the parish and the brother of the 
younger Lady Lufton, was dining at the hall with his wife, and 
the three ladies had together expressed their perfect conviction of the 
falseness of the accusation. But when Lord Lufton and Mr. Eobarts 
were together after the ladies had left them there was much less of this 
certainty expressed. " By Jove," said Lord Lufton, " I don't know 
what to think of it. I wish with all my heart that Soames had said 
nothing about it, and that the cheque had passed without remark." 

" That was impossible. When the banker sent to Soames, he was 
obliged to take the matter up." 

" Of course he was. But I'm sorry that it was so. For the life of 
me I can't conceive how the cheque got into Crawley's hands." 

" I imagine that it had been lying in the house, and that Crawley 
had come to think that it was his own." 

" But, my dear Mark," said Lord Lufton, " excuse me if I say that 
that's nonsense. What do we do when a poor man has come to think 
that another man's property is his own ? We send him to prison for 
making the mistake." 

" I hope they won't send Crawley to prison." 

" I hope so too ; but what is a jury to do ? " 

" You think it will go to a jury, then ? " 


" I do," said Lord Lufton. " I don't see how the magistrates can 
save themselves from committing him. It is one of those cases in 
which every one concerned would wish to drop it if it were only 
possible. But it is not possible. On the evidence, as one sees it at 
present, one is bound to say that it is a case for a jury." 

"I believe that he is mad," said the brother parson. 

" He always was, as far as I could learn," said the lord. " I never 
knew him, myself. You do, I think ? " 

" Oh, yes. I know him." And the vicar of Framley became silent 
and thoughtful as the memoiy of a certain interview between himself 
and Mr. Crawley came back upon his mind. At that time the waters 
had nearly closed over his head and Mr. Crawley had given him some 
assistance. When the gentlemen had again found the ladies, they 
kept their own doubts to themselves ; for at Framley Hall, as at 
present tenanted, female voices and female influences predominated 
over those which came from the other sex. 

At Barchester, the cathedral city of the county in which the 
Crawleys lived, opinion was violently against Mr. Crawley. In the 
city Mrs. Proudie, the wife of the bishop, was the leader of opinion in 
general, and she was very strong in her belief of the man's guilt. She 
had known much of clergymen all her life, as it behoved a bishop's 
wife to do, and she had none of that mingled weakness and ignorance 
which taught so many ladies in Barsetshire to suppose that an ordained 
clergyman could not become a thief. She hated old Lady Lufton with 
all her heart, and old Lady Lufton hated her as warmly. Mrs. Proudie 
would say frequently that Lady Lufton was a conceited old idiot, and 
Lady Lufton would declare as frequently that Mrs. Proudie was a 
vulgar virago. It was known at the palace in Barchester, that kindness 
had been shown to the Crawleys by the family at Framley Hall, and 
this alone would have been sufficient to make Mrs. Proudie believe that 
Mr. Crawley could have been guilty of any crime. And as Mrs. Proudie 
believed, so did the bishop believe. " It is a terrible disgrace to the 
diocese," said the bishop, shaking his head, and patting his apron as 
he sat by his study fire. 

" Fiddlestick ! " said Mrs. Proudie. 

" But, my dear, a beneficed clergyman ! " 

" You must get rid of him ; that's all. You must be firm whether 
he be acquitted or convicted." 

" But if he be acquitted, I cannot get rid of him, my dear." N 

" Yes, you can, if you are firm. And you must be firm. Is it not 
true that he has been disgracefully involved in debt ever since he has 


been there ; that you have been pestered by letters from unfortunate 
tradesmen who cannot get their money from him ? " 

" That is true, my dear, certainly." 

" And is that kind of thing to go on ? He cannot come to the 
palace as all clergymen should do, because he has got no clothes to 
come in. I saw him once about the lanes, and I never set my eyes on 
such an object in my life ! I would not believe that the man was a 
clergyman till John told me. He is a disgrace to the diocese, and he 
must be got rid of. I feel sure of his guilt, and I hope he will be 
convicted. One is bound to hope that a guilty man should be con- 
victed. But if he escape conviction, you must sequestrate the living 
because of the debts. The income is enough to get an excellent 
curate. It would just do for Thumble." To all of which the bishop 
made no further reply, but simply nodded his head and patted his 
apron. He knew that he could not do exactly what his wife required 
of him ; but if it should so turn out that poor Crawley was found to be 
guilty, then the matter would be comparatively easy. 

" It should be an example to us, that we should look to our own 
steps, my dear," said the bishop. 

" That's all very well," said Mrs. Proudie, " but it has become 
your duty, and mine too, to look to the steps of other people ; and 
that duty we must do." 

" Of course, my dear ; of course." That was the tone in which 
the question of Mr. Crav/ley's alleged guilt was discussed at the palace. 

We have already heard what was said on the subject at the house 
of Archdeacon Grantly. As the days passed by, and as other tidings 
came in, confirmatory of those which had before reached him, the 
archdeacon felt himself unable not to believe in the man's guilt. And 
the fear "which he entertained as to his son's intended marriage with 
Grace Crawley, tended to increase the strength of his belief. Dr. Grantly 
had been a very successful man in the world, and on all ordinary occa- 
sions had been able to show that bold front with which success endows 
a man. But he still had his moments of weakness, and feared greatly 
lest anything of misfortune should touch him, and mar the comely 
roundness of his prosperity. He was very wealthy. The wife of his 
bosom had been to him all that a wife should be. His reputation in 
the clerical world stood very high. He had lived all his life on terms 
of equality with the best of the gentry around him. His only daughter 
had made a splendid marriage. His two sons had hitherto done well 
in the world, not only as regarded their happiness, but as to marriage 
also, and as to social standing. But how great would be the fall if his 


son should at last marry the daughter of a convicted thief! How 
would the Proudies rejoice over him, the Proudies who had been 
crushed to the ground by the success of the Hartletop alliance ; and 
how would the low-church curates who swarmed in Barsetshire, gather 
together and scream in delight over his dismay ! " But why should we 
say that he is guilty ? " said Mrs. Grantly. 

"It hardly matters as far as we are concerned, whether they find 
him guilty or not," said the archdeacon ; " if Henry marries that girl 
my heart will be broken." 

But perhaps to no one except to the Crawleys themselves had the 
matter caused so much terrible anxiety as to the archdeacon's son. He 
had told his father that he had made no offer of marriage to Grace 
Crawley, and he had told the truth. But there are perhaps few men 
who make such offers in direct terms without having already said and 
done that which make such offers simply necessary as the final closing 
of an accepted bargain. It was so at any rate between Major Grantly 
and Miss Crawley, and Major Grantly acknowledged to himself that it 
was so. He acknowledged also to himself that as regarded Grace her- 
self he had no wish to go back from his implied intentions. Nothing 
that either his father or mother might say would shake him in that. 
But could it be his duty to bind himself to the family of a convicted 
thief ? Could it be right that he should disgrace his father and his 
mother and his sister and his one child by such a connection ? He 
had a man's heart, and the poverty of the Crawleys caused him no 
solicitude. But he shrank from the contamination of a r>rison. 


IT has already been said that Grace Crawley was at this time living 
with the two Miss Prettymans, who kept a girls' school at Silverbridge. 
Two more benignant ladies than the Miss Prettymans never presided 
over such an establishment. The younger was fat, and fresh, and fair, 
and seemed to be always running over with the milk of human kindness. 
The other was very thin and very small, and somewhat afflicted with 
bad health ; was wea'k, too, in the eyes, and subject to racking head- 
aches, so that it was considered generally that she was unable to take 
much active part in the education of the pupils. But it was considered 
as generally that she did all the thinking, that she knew more than any 
other woman in Barsetshire, and that all the Prettyman schemes for 
education emanated from her mind. It was said, too, by those who 
knew them best, that her sister's good-nature was as nothing to hers ; 
that she was the most charitable, the most loving, and the most con- 
scientious of schoolmistresses. This was Miss Annabella Prettyman, 
the elder ; and perhaps it may be inferred that some portion of her 
great character for virtue may have been due to the fact that nobody 
ever saw her out of her own house. She could not even go to 
church, because the open air brought on neuralgia. She was therefore 
perhaps taken to be magnificent, partly because she was unknown. 
Miss Anne Prettyman, the younger, went about frequently to tea- 
parties, would go, indeed, to any party to which she might be invited ; 
and was known to have a pleasant taste for pound-cake and sweet- 
meats. Being seen so much in the outer world, she became common, 
and her character did not stand so high as did that of her sister. 
Some people were ill-natured enough to say that she wanted to marry 
Mr. Winthrop ; but of what maiden lady that goes out into the world 
are not such stories told ? And all such stories in Silverbridge were told 
with special reference to Mr. Winthrop. 

Miss Crawley, at present, lived with the Miss Prettymans, and 
assisted them in the school. This arrangement had been going on for 
the last twelve months, since the time in which Grace would have left 
the school in the natural course of things. There had been no bargain 
made, and no intention that Grace should stay. She had been invited 


to fill the place of an absent superintendent, first for one month, then 
for another, and then for two more months ; and when the assistant 
came back, the Miss Prettymans thought there were reasons why Grace 
should be asked to remain a little longer. But they took great care to 
let the fashionable world of Silverbridge know that Grace Crawley was 
a visitor with them, and not a teacher. " "We pay her no salary, or 
anything of that kind," said Miss Anne Prettyman ; a statement, how- 
ever, which was by no means true, for during those four months the 
regular stipend had been paid to her ; and twice sines then, Mis, 5 ; Anna- 
bella Prettyman, who managed all the money matters, had called Grace 
into her little room, and had made a little speech, and had put a little 
bit of paper into her hand. " I know I ought not to take it," Grace 
had said to her friend Anne. " If I was not here, there would be no 
one in my place." " Nonsense, my clear," Anne Prettyman had said; 
"it is the greatest comfort to us in the world. And you should make 
yourself nice, you know, for his sake. All the gentlemen like it." 
Then Grace had been very angry, and had sworn that she would give 
the money back again. Nevertheless, I think she did make herself as 
nice as she knew how to do. And from all this it may be seen that 
the Miss Prettymans had hitherto quite approved of Major Grantly 's 

But when this terrible affair came on about the cheque which had 
been lost and found and traced to Mr. Crawley 's hands, Miss Anne 
Prettyman said nothing farther to Grace Crawley about Major Grantly. 
It was not that she thought that Mr. Crawley was guilty, but she knew 
enough of the world to be aware that suspicion of such guilt might 
compel such a man as Major Grantly to change his mind. "If he had 
only popped," Anne said to her sister, "it would have been all right. 
He would never have gone back from his word." " My dear," said 
Annabella, " I wish you would not talk about popping. It is a terrible 
word." " I shouldn't, to any one except you," said Anne. 

There had come to Silverbridge some few months since, on a visit 
to Mrs. Walker, a young lady from Allington, in the neighbouring 
county, between whom and Grace Crawley there had grown up from 
circumstances a warm friendship. Grace had a cousin in London, a 
clerk high up and well-to-do in a public office, a nephew of her mother's, 
- and this cousin was, and for years had been, violently smitten in 
love for this young lady. But the young lady's tale had been sad, raid 
though she acknowledged feelings of most affectionate friendship for 
the cousin, she could not bring herself to acknowledge more. Grace 
Crawley had met the young lady at Silverbridge, and words had been 


spoken about the cousin ; and though the young lady from Allington 
was some years older than Grace, there had grown up to be a friendship, 
and, as is not uncommon between young ladies, there had been an 
agreement that they would correspond. The name of the lady was 
Miss Lily Dale, and the name of the well-to-do cousin in London was 
Mr. John Eames. 

At the present moment Miss Dale was at home with her mother at 
Allington, and Grace Crawley in her terrible sorrow wrote to her friend, 
pouring out her whole heart. As Grace's letter and Miss Dale's answer 
will assist us in our story, I will venture to give them both. 

" DEAREST LILY, " Silverbridge, December, 186. 

" I HARDLY know how to tell you what has happened, it is so 
very terrible. But perhaps you will have heard it already, as every- 
body is talking of it here. It has got into the newspapers, and there- 
fore it cannot be kept secret. Not that I should keep anything from 
you ; only this is so very dreadful that I hardly know how to write it. 
Somebody says, a Mr. Soames, I believe it is, that papa has taken 
some money that does not belong to him, and he is to be brought 
before the magistrates and tried. Of course, papa has done nothing 
wrong. I do think he would be the last man in the world to take a 
penny that did not belong to him. You know how poor he is ; what 
a life he has had ! But I think he would almost sooner see mamma 
starving; I am sure ho would rather be starved himself, than even 
borrow a shilling which he could not pay. To suppose that he would 
take money " (she had tried to write the word "steal," but she could 
not bring her pen to form the letters) " is monstrous. But, somehow, 
the circumstances have been made to look bad against-him, and they 
say that he must come over here to the magistrates. I often think 
that of all men in the world papa is the most unfortunate. Everything 
seems to go against him, and yet he is so good ! Poor mamma has 
been over here, and she is distracted. I never saw her so wretched 
before. She had been to your friend, Mr. Walker, and came to me 
afterwards for a minute. Mr. Walker has got something to do with it, 
though mamma says she thinks he is quite friendly to papa. I wonder 
whether you could find out, through Mr. Walker, what he thinks about 
it. Of course, mamma knows that papa has done nothing wrong,; but 
she says that the whole thing is most mysterious, and that she does not 
know how to account for the money. Papa, you know, is not like 
other people. He forgets things ; and is always thinking, thinking, 
thinking of his great misfortunes. Poor papa ! My heart bleeds so 


when I remember all his sorrows, that I hate myself for thinking 
about myself. 

" When mamma left me, and it was then I first knew that papa 
would really have to be tried, I went to Miss Annabella, and told her 
that I would go home. She asked me why, and I said I would not 
disgrace her house by staying in it. She got up and took me in her 
arms, and there came a tear out of both her dear old eyes, and she 
said that if, anything evil came to papa, which she would not believe, 
as she knew him to be a good man, there should be a home in her 
house not only for me, but for mamma and Jane. Isn't she a wonderful 
woman ? When I think of her, I sometimes think that she must be 
an angel already. Then she became very serious, for just before, 
through her tears, she had tried to smile, and she told me to remember 
that all people could not be like her, who had nobody to look to but 
herself find her sister ; and that at present I must task myself not to 
think of that which I had been thinking of before. She did not 
mention anybody's name, but of course I understood very well what 
she meant ; and I suppose she is right. I said nothing in answer to 
her, for I could not speak. She was holding my hand, and I took hers 
up and kissed it, to show her, if I could, that I knew that she was 
right ; but I could not have spoken about it for all the world. It was 
not ten days since that she herself, with all her prudence, told me that 
she thought I ought to make up my mind what answer I would give 
him. And then I did not say anything ; but of course she knew. And 
after that Miss Anne spoke quite freely about it, so that I had to beg 
her to be silent even before the girls. You know how imprudent she 
is. But it is all over now. Of course Miss Annabella is right. He 
has got a great many people to think of; his father and mother, and 
his darling little Edith, whom he brought here twice, and left her with 
us once for two days, so that she got to know me quite well ; and I 
took such a love for her, that I could not bear to part with her. But 
I think sometimes that all our family are born to be unfortunate, and 
then I tell myself that I will never hope for anything again. 

" Pray write to me soon. I feel as though nothing on earth could 
comfort me, and yet I shall like to have your letter. Dear, dear Lily, 
I am not even yet so wretched but what I shall rejoice to be told good 
news of you. If it only could be as John wishes it ! And why should 
it not? It seems to me that nobody has a right or a reason to be 
unhappy except us. Good-by, dearest Lily, 

" Your affectionate friend, 



" P.S. I think I have made up my mind that I will go back to 
Hogglestock at once if the magistrates decide against papa. I think I 
should be doing the school harm if I were to stay here." 

The answer to this letter did not reach Miss Crawley till after the 
magistrates' meeting on the Thursday, but it will be better for our story 
that it should be given here than postponed until the result of that 
meeting shall have been told. Miss Dale's answer was as follows : 

DEAR GRACE, "Allington, December, 186 . 

" YOUR letter has made me very unhappy. If it can at all 
comfort 3 7 ou to know that mamma and I sympathize with you altogether, 
in that you may at any rate be sure. But in such troubles nothing will 
give comfort. They must be borne, till the fire of misfortune burns 
itself out. 

" I had heard about the affair a day or two before I got your note. 
Our clergyman, Mr. Boyce, told us of it. Of course we all know that 
the charge must be altogether unfounded, and mamma says that the 
truth will be sure to show itself at last. But that conviction does not 
cure the evil, and I can well understand that your father should suffer 
grievously ; and I pity your mother quite as much as I do him. 

" As for Major Grantly, if he be such a man as I took him to be 
from the little I saw of him, all this would make no difference to him. 
I am sure that it ought to make none. Whether it should not make a 
difference in you is another question. I think it should ; and I think 
your answer to him should be that you could not even consider any 
such proposition while your father was in so great trouble. I am so 
much older than you, and seem to have had so much experience, that 
I do not scruple, as you will see, to come down upon you with all the 
weight of my wisdom. 

" About that other subject I had rather say nothing. I have known 
your cousin all my life, almost ; and I regard no one more kindly than 
I do him. When I think of my friends, he is always one of the dearest. 
But when one thinks of going beyond friendship, even if one tries to do 
so, there are so many barriers ! t 

" Your affectionate friend, 


" Mamma bids me say that she would be delighted to have you here 
whenever it might suit you to come ; and I add to this message my 
entreaty that you will come at once. You say that you think you 
ought to leave Miss Prettyman's for a while. I can well understand 


your feeling ; but as your sister is with your mother, surely you had 
better come to us, I mean quite at once. I will not scruple to tell 
you what mamma says, because I know your good sense. She says 
that as the interest of the school may possibly be concerned, and as 
you have no regular engagement, she thinks you ought to leave Silver- 
bridge ; but she says that it will be better that you come to us than 
that you should go home. If you went home, people might say that 
you had left in some sort of disgrace. Come to us, and when all this 
has been put right, then you go back to Silverbridge ; and then, if a 
certain person speaks again, you can make a different answer. Mamma 
quite understands that you are to come ; so you have only got to ask 
your own mamma, and come at once." 

This letter, as the reader will understand, did not reach Grace 
Crawley till after the all-important Thursday ; but before that day had 
come round, Grace had told Miss Prettyman, had told both the Miss 
Prettymans that she was resolved to leave them. She had done this 
without even consulting her mother, driven to it by various motives. 
She knew that her father's conduct was being discussed by the girls in 
the school, and that things were said of him which it could not but be 
for the disadvantage of Miss Prettyman that any one should say of a 
teacher in her establishment. She felt, too, that she could not hold up 
her head in Silverbridge in these days, as it would become her to do if 
she retained her position. She did struggle gallantly, and succeeded 
much more nearly than she was herself aware. She was all but able to 
carry herself as though no terrible accusation was being made against 
her father. Of the struggle, however, she was not herself the less 
conscious, and she told herself that on that account also she must go. 
And then she must go also because of Major Grantly. Whether he was 
minded to come and speak to her that one other needed word, or whether 
he was not so minded, it would be better that she should be away from 
Silverbridge. If he spoke it she could only answer him by a negative ; 
and if he were minded not to speak it, would it not be better that she 
should leave herself the power of thinking that his silence had been 
caused by her absence, and not by his coldness or indifference ? 

She asked, therefore, for an interview with Miss Prettyman, and was 
shown into the elder sister's room, at eleven o'clock on the Tuesday 
morning. The elder Miss Prettyman never came into the school herself 
till twelve, but was in the habit of having interviews with the young 
ladies, which were sometimes very awful in their nature, for the two 
previous hours. During these interviews an immense amount of 


business was done, and the fortunes in life of some girls were said to 
have been there made or marred; as when, for instance, Miss Crimpton 
had been advised to stay at home with her uncle in England, instead 
of going out with her sisters to India, both of which . sisters were 
man-led within three months of their landing at Bombay. The way in 
which she gave her counsel on such occasions was very efficacious. 
No one knew better than Miss Prettyman that a cock can crow most 
effectively in his own farmyard, and therefore all crowing intended to 
be effective was done by her within the shrine of her own peculiar room. 

" Well, my dear, what is it ? " she said to Grace. " Sit in the 
arm-chair, my dear, and we can then talk comfortably." The teachers, 
when they were closeted with Miss Prettyman, were always asked to sit in 
the arm-chair, whereas a small, straight-backed, uneasy chair was kept for 
the use of the young ladies. And there was, too, a stool of repentance, 
out against the wall, very uncomfortable indeed for young ladies who 
had not behaved themselves so prettily as young ladies generally do. 

Grace seated herself, and then began her speech very quickly. 
" Miss Prettyman," she said, " I have made up my mind that I will go 
home, if you please." 

" And why should you go home, Grace ? Did I not tell you that 
you should have a home here ? " Miss Prettyman had weak eyes, and 
was very small, and had never possessed any claim to be called good- 
looking. And she assumed nothing of majestical awe from any 
adornment or studied amplification of the outward woman by means of 
impressive trappings. The possessor of an unobservant eye might have 
called her a mean-looking, little old woman. And certainly there 
would have been nothing awful in her to any one who came across her 
otherwise than as a lady having authority in her own school. But 
within her own precincts, she did know how to surround herself with a 
dignity which all felt who approached her there. Grace Crawley, as 
she heard the simple question whith Miss Prettyman had asked, 
unconsciously acknowledged the strength of the woman's manner. 
She already stood rebuked for having proposed a plan so ungracious, BO 
unnecessary, and so unwise. 

" I think I ought to be with mamma at present," said Grace. 

" Your mother has your sister with her." 

" Yes, Miss Prettyman ; Jane is there." 

" If there be no other reason, I cannot think that that can be held 
to be a reason now. Of course your mother would like to have you 
always ; unless you should be married, but then there are reasons why 
this should not be so." 


" Of course there are." 

" I do not think, that is, if I know all that there is to he known, 
I do not think, I say, that there can be any good ground for your 
leaving us now, -just now." 

Then Grace sat silent for a moment, gathering her courage, and 
collecting her words ; and after that she spoke. "It is because of 
papa, and because of this charge " 

" But, Grace " 

"I know what you are going to say, Miss Prettyman ; that is, I 
think I know." 

" If you will hear me, you may be sure that you know." 

" But I want you to hear me for one moment first. I beg your 
pardon, Miss Prettyman ; I do indeed, but I want to say this before 
you go on. I must go home, and I know I ought. We are all disgraced, 
and I won't stop here to disgrace the school. I know papa has done 
nothing wrong ; but nevertheless we are disgraced. The police are to 
bring him in here on Thursday, and everybody in Silverbridge will 
know it. It cannot be right that I should be here teaching in the 
school, while it is all going on ; and I won't. And, Miss Prettyman, 
I couldn't do it, indeed I couldn't. I can't bring myself to think of 
anything I am doing. Indeed I can't ; and then, Miss Prettyman, 
there are other reasons." By the time that she had proceeded thus far, 
Grace Crawley's words were nearly choked by her tears. 

" And what are the other reasons, Grace ? " 

'" I don't know," said Grace, struggling to speak through her tears. 

" But I know," said Miss Prettyman. " I know them all. I know 
all your reasons, and I tell you that in my opinion you ought to 
remain where you are, and not go away. The very reasons which to 
you are reasons for your going, to me are reasons for your remaining 

" I can't remain. I am determined to go. I don't mind you and 
Miss Anne, but I can't bear to have the girls looking at me, and the 

Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking what words of wisdom 
would be most appropriate in the present conjuncture. But words of 
wisdom did not seem to come easily to her, having for the moment 
been banished by tenderness of heart. " Come here, my love," she 
said at last. " Come here, Grace." Slowly Grace got up from her 
seat and came round, and stood by Miss Prettyman' s elbow. Miss 
Prettyman pushed her chair a little back, and pushed herself a little 
forward, and stretching out one hand, placed her arm round Grace's 



waist, and with the other took hold of Grace's hand, and thug drew 
her down and kissed the girl's forehead and lips. And then Grace 
found herself kneeling at her friend's feet. " Grace," she said, "do 
you not know that I love you ? Do you not know that I love you 
dearly ? " In answer to this, Grace kissed the withered hand she held 
in hers, while the warm tears trickled down upon Miss Prettyman's 
knuckles. "I love you as though you were my own," exclaimed the 
schoolmistress ; " and will you not trust me, that I know what is best 
for you ? " 

" I must go home," said Grace. 

" Of course you shall, if you think it right at last ; but let us talk 
of it. No one in this house, you know, has the slightest suspicion that 
your father has done anything that is in the least dishonourable." 

" I know that you have not." 

" No, nor has Anne." Miss Prettyman said this as though no one 
in that house beyond herself and her sister had a right to have any 
opinion on any subject. 

" I know that," said Grace. 

" Well, my dear. If we think so " 

" But the servants, Miss Prettyman ? " 

"If any servant in this house says a word to offend you, I'll 
I'll " 

" They don't say anything, Miss Prettyman, but they look. Indeed 
I'd better go home. Indeed I had ! " 

" Do not you think your mother has cares enough upon her, and 
burden enough, without having another mouth to feed, and another head 
to shelter. You haven't thought of that, Grace ! " 

" Yes, I have." 

" And as for the work, whilst yon are not quite well you shall not 
be troubled with teaching. I have some old papers that want copying 
and settling, and you shall sit here and do that just for an employment. 
Anne knows that I've long wanted to have it done, and I'll tell her that 
you've kindly promised to do it for me." 

"No; no; no," said Grace; "I must go home." She was still 
kneeling at Miss Prettyman's knee, and still holding Miss Prettyman's 
hand. And then, at that moment, there came a tap at the door, gentle 
but yet not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part of the 
tapper, the supremacy in that room of the lady who was sitting there, 
but which still claimed admittance almost as a right. The tap was 
well known by both of them to be the tap of Miss Anne. Grace 
immediately jumped up, and Miss Prettyman settled herself in her 


chair with a motion which almost seemed to indicate some feeling of 
shame as to her late position. 

" I suppose I may come in ? " said Miss Anne, opening the door 
and inserting her head. 

" Yes, you may come in, if you have anything to say," said 
Miss Prettyman, with an air which seemed to be intended to assert 
her supremacy. But, in truth, she was simply collecting the wisdom 
and dignity which had been somewhat dissipated by her tenderness. 

" I did not know that Grace Crawley was here," said Miss Anne. 

" Grace Crawley is here," said Miss Prettyman. 

" What is the matter, Grace? " said Miss Anne, seeing the tears. 

" Never mind now," said Miss Prettyman. 

"Poor dear, I'm sure I'm sorry as though she were my own 
sister," said Anne. "But, Annabella, I want to speak to" you 

"To me, in private ? " 

" Yes, to you ; in private, if Grace won't mind ? " 

Then Grace prepared to go. But as she was going, Miss Anne, 
upon whose brow a heavy burden of thought was lying, stopped her 
suddenly. " Grace, my dear," she said, " go upstairs into your 
room, will you ? not across the hall to the school." 

" And why shouldn't she go to the school ? " said Miss Prettyman. 

Miss Anne paused a moment, and then answered, unwillingly, as 
though driven to make a reply which she knew to be indiscreet. 
" Because there is somebody in the hall." 

"Go to your room, dear," said Miss Prettyman. And Grace went 
to her room, never turning an eye down towards the hall. "Who is 
it ? " said Miss Prettyman. 

" Major Grantly is here, asking to see you," said Miss Anne. 



AJOR GRANTLY, when threat- 
ened by his father with pecu- 
niary punishment, should he 
demean himself by such a mar- 
riage as that he had proposed 
to himself, had declared that he 
would offer his hand to Miss 
Crawley on the next morning. 
This, however, he had not done. 
He had not done it, partly 
because he did not quite believe 
his father's threat, and partly 
because he felt that that threat 
was almost justified, for the 
present moment, by the cir- 
cumstances in which Grace 
Crawley's father had placed 
himself. Henry Grantly ac- 
knowleged, as he drove himself home on the morning after his 
dinner at the rectory, that in this matter of his marriage he did 
owe much to his family. Should he marry at all, he owed it to 
them to marry a lady. And Grace Crawley, so he told himself, 
was a lady. And he owed it to them to bring among them as his 
wife a woman who should not disgrace him or them by her educa- 
tion, manners, or even by her personal appearance. In all these 
respects Grace Crawley was, in his judgment, quite as good as they 
had a right to expect her to be, and in some respects a great deal 
superior to that type of womanhood with which they had been most 
generally conversant. " If everybody had her due, my sister isn't fit 
to hold a candle to her," he said to himself. It must be acknowledged, 
therefore, that he was really in love with Grace Crawley; and ho 
declared to himself, over and over again, that his family had no right 
to demand that he should marry a woman with money. The arch- 
deacon's son by no means despised money. How could he, having 



come forth as a bird fledged from such a nest as the rectory at Plum- 
stead Episcopi ? Before he had been brought by his better nature and 
true judgment to see that Grace Crawley was the greater woman of the 
two, he had nearly submitted himself to the twenty thousand pounds 
of Miss Emily Dunstable, to that, and her good-humour and rosy 
freshness combined. But he regarded himself as the well-to-do son of 
a very rich father. His only child was amply provided for ; and he 
felt that, as regarded money, he had a right to do as he pleased. He 
felt this with double strength after his father's threat. 

But he had no right to make a marriage by which his family would 
be disgraced. Whether he was right or wrong in supposing that he 
would disgrace his family were he to many the daughter of a convicted 
thief, it is hardly necessary to discuss here. He told himself that it 
would be so, telling himself also that, by the stern laws of the world, 
the son and the daughter must pay for the offence of the father and the 
mother. Even among the poor, who would willingly many the child 
of a man who had been hanged ? But he carried the argument beyond 
this, thinking much of the matter, and endeavouring to think of it not 
only justly, but generously. If the accusation against Crawley were 
false, if the man were being injured by an unjust charge, even if he, 
Grantly, could make himself think that the girl's father had not stolen 
the money, then he would dare everything and go on. I do not know 
that his argument was good, or that his mind was logical in the matter. 
He ought to have felt that his own judgment as to the man's guilt was 
less likely to be correct than that of those whose duty it was and would 
be to form and to express a judgment on the matter ; and as to Grace 
herself, she was equally innocent whether her father were guilty or not 
guilty. If he were to be debarred from asking her for her hand by his 
feelings for her father and mother, he should hardly have trusted to 
his own skill in ascertaining the real truth as to the alleged theft. 
But he was not logical, and thus, meaning to be generous, he became 

He found that among those in Silverbridge whom he presumed to 
be best informed on such matters, there was a growing opinion that 
Mr. Crawley had stolen the money. He was intimate with all the Walkers, 
and was able to find out that Mrs. Walker knew that her husband 
believed in the clergyman's guilt. He was by no means alone in his 
willingness to accept Mr. Walker's opinion as the true opinion. Silver- 
bridge, generally, was endeavouring to dress itself in Mr. Walker's glass, 
and to believe as Mr. Walker believed. The ladies of Silverbridge, inclu- 
ding the Miss Prettymans, were aware that Mr. Walker had been very 


kind both to Mr. and Mrs. Crawley, and argued from this that Mr. Walker 
must think the man to be innocent. But Henry Grantly, who did not 
dare to ask a direct question of the solicitor, went cunningly to work, 
and closeted himself with Mrs. Walker, with Mrs. Walker, who knew 
well of the good fortune which was hovering over Grace's head and 
was so nearly settling itself upon her shoulders. She would have given 
a finger to be able to whitewash Mr. Crawley in the major's estimation. 
Nor must it be supposed that she told the major in plain words that 
her husband had convinced himself of the man's guilt. In plain words 
no question was asked between them, and in plain words no opinion 
was expressed. But there was the look of sorrow in the woman's eye, 
there was the absence of reference to her husband's assurance that the 
man was innocent, there was the air of settled grief which told of her 
own conviction ; and the major left her, convinced that Mrs. Walker 
believed Mr. Crawley to be guilty. 

Then he went to Barchester ; not open-mouthed with inquiry, but 
rather with open ears, and it seemed to him that all men in Barchester 
were of one mind. There was a county- club in Barchester, and at this 
county- club nine men out of every ten were talking about Mr. Crawley. 
It was by no means necessary that a man should ask questions on the 
subject. Opinion was expressed so freely that no such asking was 
required ; and opinion in Barchester, at any rate in the county-club, 
seemed now to be all of one mind. There had been every disposition 
at first to believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent. He had been believed 
to be innocent, even after he had said wrongly that the cheque had 
been paid to him by Mr. Soames ; but he had since stated that he had 
received it from Dean Arabin, and that statement was also shown to bo 
false. A man who has a cheque changed on his own behalf is bound 
at least to show where he got the cheque. Mr. Crawley had not only 
failed to do this, but had given two false excuses. Henry Grantly, as 
he drove home to Silverbridge on the Sunday afternoon, summed up all 
the evidence in his own mind, and brought in a verdict of Guilty against 
the father of the girl whom he loved. 

On the following morning he walked into Silverbridge and called at 
Miss Prettyman's house. As he went along his heart was warmer 
towards Grace than it had ever been before. He had told himself that 
he was now bound to abstain, for his father's sake, from doing that 
which he had told his father that he would certainly do. But he knew 
also, that he had said that which, though it did not bind him to Miss 
Crawley, gave her a right to expect that he would so bind himself. 
And Miss Prettyman could not but be aware of what his intention had 

p 2 


been, and could not but expect that he should now be explicit. Had 
he been a wise man altogether, he would probably have abstained from 
saying anything at the present moment, a wise man, that is, in the 
ways and feelings of the world in such matters. But, as there are men 
who will allow themselves all imaginable latitude in their treatment of 
women, believing that the world will condone any amount of fault of 
that nature, so are there other men, and a class of men which on the 
whole is the more numerous of the two, who are tremblingly alive to 
the danger of censure on this head, and to the danger of censure not 
only from others, but from themselves also. Major Grantly had done 
that which made him think it imperative upon him to do something 
further, and to do that something at once. 

Therefore he started off on the Monday morning after breakfast and 
walked to Silverbridge, and as he walked he built various castles in the 
air. Why should he not marry Grace, if she would have him, and 
take her away beyond the reach of her father's calamity ? Why should 
he not throw over his own people altogether, money, position, society, 
and all, and give himself up to love ? Were he to do so, men might 
say that he was foolish, but no one could hint that he was dishonour- 
able. His spirit was high enough to teach him to think that such 
conduct on his part would have in it something of magnificence ; but, 
yet, such was not his purpose. In going to Miss Prettyman it was his 
intention to apologize for not doing this magnificent thing. His mind 
was quite made up. Nevertheless he built those castles in the air. 

It so happened that he encountered the younger Miss Prettyman in 
the hall. It would not at all have suited him to reveal to her the 
purport of his visit, or ask her either to assist his suit or to receive his 
apologies. Miss Anne Prettyman was too common a personage in the 
Silverbridge world to be fit for such employment. Miss Anne Prettyman 
was, indeed, herself submissive to him, and treated him with the courtesy 
which is due to a superior being. He therefore simply asked her whether 
he could be allowed to see her sister. 

" Surely, Major Grantly ; that is, I think so. It is a little early, 
but I think she can receive you." 

"It is early, I know ; but as I want to say a word or two on 
business " 

" Oh, on business. I am sure she will see you on business; she 
will only be too proud. If you will be kind enough to step in here for 
two minutes." Then Miss Anne, having deposited the major in the 
little parlour, ran upstairs with her message to her sister. ' ' Of course 
it's about Grace Crawlev," she said to herself as she went. " It can't 


be about anything else. I wonder what it is he's going to say. If he's 
going to pop, and the father in all this trouble, he's the finest fellow 
that ever trod." Such were her thoughts as she tapped at the door and 
announced in the presence of Grace that there was somebody in the hall. 

" It's Major Grantly," whispered Anne, as soon as Grace had shut 
the door behind her. 

" So I supposed by your telling her not to go into the hall. What 
has he come to say ? " 

" How on earth can I tell you that, Annabella ? But I suppose he 
can have only one thing to say after all that has come and gone. He 
can only have come with one object." 

" He wouldn't have come to me for that. He would have asked to 
see herself." 

" But she never goes out now, and he can't see her." 

" Or he would have gone to them over at Hogglestock," said Miss 
Prettyman. " But of course he must come up now he is here. Would 
you mind telling him? or shall I ring the bell?" 

"I'll tell him. We need not make more fuss than necessary, with 
the servants, you know. I suppose I'd better not come back with him ? " 

There was a tone of supplication in the younger sister's voice as she 
made the last suggestion, which ought to have melted the heart of the 
elder ; but it was unavailing. " As he has asked to see me, I think you 
had better not," said Annabella. Miss Anne Prettyman bore her cross 
meekly, offered no argument on the subject, and returning to the little 
parlour where she had left the major, brought him upstairs and ushered 
him into her sister's room without even entering it again, herself. 

Major Grantly was as intimately acquainted with Miss Anne Pretty- 
man as a man under thirty may well be with a lady nearer fifty than 
forty, who is not specially connected with him by any family tie ; but 
of Miss Prettyman he knew personally very much less. Miss Pretty- 
man, as has before been said, did not go out, and was therefore not 
common to the eyes of the Silverbridgians. She did occasionally see 
her friends in her own house, and Grace Crawley's lover, as the major 
had come "to be called, had been there on more than one occasion ; but 
of real personal intimacy between them there had hitherto existed none. 
He might have spoken, perhaps, a dozen words to her in his life. He 
had now more than a dozen to speak to her, but he hardly knew how 
to commence them. 

She had got up and curtseyed, and had then taken his hand and 
asked him to sit down. " My sister tells me that you want to see me," 
she said, in her softest, mildest voice. 


" I do, Miss Prettyinan. I want to speak to you about a matter 
that troubles me very much, very much indeed." 

" Anything that I can do, Major Grantly " 

" Thank you, yes. I know that you are very good, or I should not 
have ventured to come to you. Indeed I shouldn't trouble you now, of 
course, if it was only about myself. I know very well what a great 
friend you are to Miss Crawley." 

" Yes, I am. We love Grace dearly here." 

"So do I," said the major, bluntly; "I love her dearly, too." 
Then he paused, as though he thought that Miss Prettyman ought to 
take up the speech. But Miss Prettyman seemed to think differently, 
and he was obliged to go on. "I don't know whether you have ever 

heard about it, or noticed it, or or or " He felt that he was 

very awkward, and he blushed. Major as he was, he blushed as he 
sat before the old woman, trying to tell his story, but not knowing 
how to tell it. "The truth is, Miss Prettyman, I have done all but 
ask her to be my wife, and now has come this terrible affair about 
her father." 

" It is a terrible affair, Major Grantly; very terrible." 

" By Jove, you may say that ! " 

" Of course Mr. Crawley is as innocent in the matter as you or I are." 

" You think so, Miss Prettyman ? " 

" Think so ! I feel quite sure of it. What; a clergyman of the 
Church of England, a pious, hard-working country clergyman, whom 
we have known among us by his good works for years, suddenly turn 
thief, and pilfer a few pounds ! It is not possible, Major Grantly. 
And the father of such a daughter, too ! It is not possible. It may do 
for men of business to think so, lawyers and such like, who are obliged 
to think in accordance with the evidence, as they call it ; but to my 
mind the idea is monstrous. I don't know how he got it, and I don't 
care ; but I'm quite sure he did not steal it. Whoever heard of 
anybody becoming so base as that all at once ? " 

The major was startled by her eloquence, and by the indignant tone 
of voice in which it was expressed. It seemed to tell him that she 
would give him no sympathy in that which he had come to say to her, 
and to upbraid him already in that he was not prepared to do the 
magnificent thing of which he had thought when he had been building 
his castles in the air. Why should he not do the magnificent thing ? 
Miss Prettyman' s eloquence was so strong that it half convinced him 
that the Barchester Club and Mr. Walker had come to a wrong conclu- 
sion after all. 


" And how does Miss Crawley bear it?" he asked, desirous of 
postponing for a while any declaration of his own purpose. 

" She is very unhappy, of course. Not that she thinks evil of her 

" Of course she does not think him guilty." 

" Nobody thinks him so in this house, Major Grantly,"said the little 
woman, very imperiously. " But Grace is, naturally enough, very sad ; 
very sad indeed. I do not think I can ask you to see her to-day." 

" I was not thinking of it," said the major. 

''Poor, dear girl ! it is a great trial for her. Do you wish me to 
give her any message, Major Grantly ? " 

The moment had now come in which he must say that which he had 
come to say. The little woman waited for an answer, and as he was 
there, within her power as it were, he must speak. I fear that what he 
said will not be approved by any strong-minded reader. I fear that our 
lover will henceforth be considered by such a one as being but a weak, 
wishy-washy man, who had hardly any mind of his own to speak of; 
that he was a man of no account, as the poor people say. " Miss 
Prettyman, what message ought I to send to her ? " he said. 

" Nay, Major Grantly, how can I tell you that ? How can I put 
words into youV mouth ? " 

" It isn't the words," he said ; "but the feelings ? " 

" And how can I tell the feelings of your heart ? " 

" Oh, as for that, I know what my feelings are. I do love her with 
all my heart; I do, indeed. A fortnight ago I was only thinking 
whether she would accept me when I asked her, wondering whether 
I was too old for her, and whether she would mind having Edith to 
take care of." 

" She is very fond of Edith, very fond indeed." 

" Is she ? " said the major, more distracted than ever. Why should 
he not do the magnificent thing after all ? " But it is a great charge 
for a young girl when she marries." 

" It is a great charge; a very great charge. It is for you to think 
whether you should entrust so great a charge to one so young." 

" I have no fear about that at all." 

" Nor should I have any, as you ask me. We have known Grace 
well, thoroughly, and are quite sure that she will do her duty in that 
state of life to which it may please God to call her." 

The major was aware when this was said to him that he had not 
come to Miss Prettyman for a character of the girl he loved ; and yet 
he was not angry at receiving it. He was neither angry, nor even 


indifferent. He accepted the character almost gratefully, though ho 
felt that he was being led away from his purpose. He consoled 
himself for this, however, by remembering that the path by which 
Miss Prettyman was now leading him, led to the magnificent, and to 
those pleasant castles in the air which he had been building as he 
walked into Silverbridge. "I am quite sure that she is all that you 
say," he replied. " Indeed I had made up my mind about that 
long ago." 

" And what can I do for you, Major Grantly ? " 

"You think I ought not to see her ? " 

"I will ask herself, if you please. I have such trust in her judg- 
ment that I should leave her altogether to her own discretion." 

The magnificent thing must be done, and the major made up his 
mind accordingly. Something of regret came over his spirit as ho 
thought of a father-in-law disgraced and degraded, and of his own 
father broken-hearted. But now there was hardly an alternative left 
to him. And was it not the manly thing for him to do ? He had 
loved the girl before this trouble had come upon her, and was he not 
bound to accept the burden which his love had brought with it ? "I 
will see her," he said, " at once, if you will let me, and ask her to be 
my wife. But I must see her alone." 

Then Miss Prettyman paused. Hitherto she had undoubtedly been 
playing her fish cautiously, or rather her young friend's fish, perhaps 
I may say cunningly. She had descended to artifice on behalf of the 
girl whom she loved, admired, and pitied. She had seen some way 
into the man's mind, and had been partly aware of his purpose, of his 
infirmity of purpose, of his double purpose. She had perceived that a 
word from her might help Grace's chance, and had led the man on till 
he had committed himself, at any rate to her. In doing this she had 
been actuated by friendship rather than by abstract principle. But 
now, when the moment had come in which she must decide upon some 
action, she paused. Was it right, for the sake of either of them, that 
an offer of marriage should be made at such a moment as this ? It 
might be very well, in regard to some future time, that the major should 
have so committed himself. She saw something of the man's spirit, and 
believed that, having gone so far, having so far told his love, he would 
return to his love hereafter, let the result of the Crawley trial be what 
it might. But, but, this could be no proper time for love-making. 
Though Grace loved the man, as Miss Prettyman knew well, though 
Grace loved the child, having allowed herself to long to call it her own, 
though such a marriage would be the making of Grace's fortune as those 


who loved her could hardly have hoped that it should ever have been 
made, she would certainly refuse the man, if he were to propose to her 
now. She would refuse him, and then the man would be free ; free to 
change his mind if he thought fit. Considering all these things, craftily 
in the exercise of her friendship, too cunningly, I fear, to satisfy the 
claims of a high morality, she resolved that the major had better not see 
Miss Crawley at the present moment. Miss Prettyman paused before 
she replied, and, when she did speak, Major Grantly had risen from his 
chair and was standing with his back to the fire. " Major Grantly," 
she said, " you shall see her if you please, and if she pleases ; but I 
doubt whether her answer at such a moment as this would be that 
which you would wish to receive." 

" You think she would refuse me." 

" I do not think that she would accept you now. She would feel, 
I am sure she would feel, that these hours of her father's sorrow are 
not hours in which love should be either offered or accepted. You 
shall, however, see her if you please." 

The major allowed himself a moment for thought ; and as he 
thought he sighed. Grace Crawley became more beautiful in his eyes 
than ever, was endowed by these words from Miss Prettyman with new 
charms and brighter virtues than he had seen before. Let come what 
might he would ask her to be his wife on some future day, if he did not 
so ask her now. For the present, perhaps, he had better be guided by 
Miss Prettyman. " Then I will not see her," he said. 

" I think that will be the wiser course." 

" Of course you knew before this that I loved her ? " 

"I thought so, Major Grantly." 

" And that I intended to ask her to be my wife ? " 

" Well ; since you put the question to me so plainly, I must confess 
that as Grace's friend I should not quite have let things go on as they 
have gone, though I am not at all disposed to interfere with any girl 
whom I believe to be pure and good as I know her to be, but still I 
should hardly have been justified in letting things go as they have gone, 
if I had not believed that such was your purpose." 

" I wanted to set myself right with you, Miss Prettyman." 

" You are right with me, quite right ; " and she got up and gave 
him her hand. " You are a fine, noble-hearted gentleman, and I hope 
that our Grace may live to be your happy wife, and the mother of your 
darling child, and the mother of other children. I do not see how a 
woman could have a happier lot in life." 

" And will you give Grace my love ? " 


" I will tell her at any rate that you have been here, and that you 
have inquired after her with the greatest kindness. She will under- 
stand what that means without any word of love." 

" Can I do anything for her, or for her father ; I mean in the 
way of money ? I don't mind mentioning it to you, Miss Prettyman." 

" I will tell her that you are ready to do it, if anything can be done. 
For myself I feel no doubt that the mystery will be cleared up at last ; 
and then, if you will come here, we shall be so glad to see you. I 
shall, at least." 

Then the major went, and Miss Prettyman herself actually 
descended with him into the hall, and bade him farewell most 
affectionately before her sister and two of the maids who came out 
to open the door. Miss Anne Prettyman, when she saw the great 
friendship with which the major was dismissed, could not contain 
herself, but asked most impudent questions, in a whisper indeed, but 
in such a whisper that any sharp-eared maid-servant could hear and 
understand them. " Is it settled," she asked when her sister had 
ascended only the first flight of stairs ; " has he popped ? " The 
look with which the elder sister punished and dismayed the younger, 
I would not have borne for twenty pounds. She simply looked, and 
said nothing, but passed on. When she had regained her room she 
rang the bell, and desired the servant to ask Miss Crawley to be good 
enough to step to her. Poor Miss Anne retired discomforted into the 
solitude of one of the lower rooms, and sat for some minutes all alone, 
recovering from the shock of her sister's anger. " At any rate, he 
hasn't popped," she said to herself, as she made her way back to the 

After that Miss Prettyman and Miss Crawley were closeted together 
for about an hour. What passed between them need not be repeated 
here word for word ; but it may be understood that Miss Prettyman 
said no more than she ought to have said, and that Grace understood 
all that she ought to have understood. 

" No man ever behaved with more considerate friendship, or more 
like a gentleman," said Miss Prettyman. 

" I ani sure he is very good, and I ani so glad he did not ask to 
see me," said Grace. Then Grace went away, and Miss Prettyman sat 
awhile in thought, considering what she had done, not without some 
stings of conscience. 

Major Grantly, as he walked home, was not altogether satisfied 
with himself, though he gave himself credit for some diplomacy which 
I do not think he deserved. He felt that Miss Prettyinan and tho 


world in general, should the world in general ever hear anything about 
it, would give him credit for having behaved well ; and that he had 
obtained this credit without committing himself to the necessity of 
marrying the daughter of a thief, should things turn out badly in regard 
to the father. But, and this but robbed him of all the pleasure which 
comes from real success, but he had not treated Grace Crawley with 
the perfect generosity which love owes, and he was in some degree 
ashamed of himself. He felt, however, that he might probably have 
Grace, should he choose to ask for her when this trouble should have 
passed by. " And I will," he said to himself, as he entered the gate 
of his own paddock, and saw his child in her perambulator before the 
nurse. " And I will ask her, sooner or later, let things go as they 
may." Then he took the perambulator under his own charge for half- 
an-hour, to the satisfaction of the nurse, of the child, and of himself. 



IT had become necessary on the Monday morning that Mrs. Crawley 
should obtain from ; her husband an undertaking that he would 
present himself before the magistrates at Silverbridge on the Thursday. 
She had been made to understand that the magistrates were sinning 
against the strict rule of the law in not issuing a warrant at once for 
Mr. Crawley 's apprehension ; and that they were so sinning at the 
instance of Mr. Walker, at whose instance they would have committed 
almost any sin practicable by a board of English magistrates, so great 
was their faith in him ; and she knew that she was bound to answer 
her engagement. She had also another task to perform that, namely, 
of persuading him to employ an attorney for his defence ; and she 
was prepared with the name of an attorney, one Mr. Mason, also of 
Silverbridge, who had been recommended to her by Mr. Walker. But 
when she came to the performance of these two tasks on the Monday 
morning, she found that she was unable to accomplish either of them. 
Mr. Crawley first declared that he would have nothing to do with any 
attorney. As to that he seemed to have made up his mind beforehand, 
and she saw at once that she had no hope of shaking him. But when 
she found that he was equally obstinate in the other matter, and that 


he declared that lie would not go before the magistrates unless he were 
made to do so, unless the policemen came and fetched him, then she 
almost sank beneath the burden of her troubles, and for a vrhile was 
disposed to let things go as they would. How could she strive to bear 
a load that was so manifestly too heavy for her shoulders ? 

On the Sunday the poor man had exerted himself to get through 
his Sunday duties, and he had succeeded. He had succeeded so well 
that his wife had thought that things might yet come right with him, 
that he would remember, before it was too late, the true history of that 
unhappy bit of paper, and that he was rising above that half madness 
which for months past had afflicted him. On the Sunday evening, when 
he was tired with his work, she thought it best to say nothing to him 
about the magistrates and the business of Thursday. But on the Monday 
morning she commenced her task, feeling that she owed it to Mr. Walker 
to lose no more time. He was very decided in his manners and made 
her understand that he would employ no lawyer on his own behalf. 
" Why should I want a lawyer? I have done nothing wrong," he said. 
Then she tried to make him understand that many who may have done 
nothing wrong require a lawyer's aid. "And who is to pay him ? " 
he asked. To this she replied, unfortunately, that there would be no 
need of thinking of that at once. "And I am to get further into 
debt! " he said. "I am to put myself right before the world by 
incurring debts which I know I can never pay ? When it has been 
a question of food for the children I have been weak, but I will not be 
weak in such a matter as this. I will have no lawyer." She did not 
regard this denial on his part as very material, though she would fain 
have followed Mr. Walker's advice had she been able ; but when, later 
in the day, he declared that the police should fetch him, then her 
spirit gave way. Early in the morning he had seemed to assent to the 
expediency of going into Silverbridge on the Thursday, and it was not 
till after he had worked himself into a rage about the proposed 
attorney, that' he utterly refused to make the journey. During the 
whole day, however, his state was such as almost to break his wife's 
heart. He would do nothing. He would not go to the school, nor 
even stir beyond the house-door. He would not open a book. He 
would not eat, nor would he even sit at table or say the accustomed 
grace when the scanty mid-day meal was placed upon the table. 
" Nothing is blessed to me," he said, when his wife pressed him to 
say the words for their child's sake. " Shall I say that I thank 
God when my heart is thankless ? Shall I serve my child by a lie ?" 
Then for hours he sat in the same position, in the old arm-chair, 


hanging over the fire speechless, sleepless, thinking ever, as she well 
knew, of the injustice of the world. She hardly dared to speak to 
him, so great was the bitterness of his words when he was goaded to 
reply. At last, late in the evening, feeling that it would be her duty 
to send in to Mr. Walker early on the following morning, she laid her 
hand gently on his shoulder and asked him for his promise. " I may 
tell Mr. Walker that you will be there on Thursday ? " 

"No," he said, shouting at her. "No. I will have no such 
message sent." She started back, trembling. Not that she was 
accustomed to tremble at his ways, or to show that she feared him in 
his paroxysms, but that his voice had been louder than she had before 
known it. "I will hold no intercourse with them at Silverbridge in 
this matter. Do you hear me, Mary ? " 

" I hear you, Josiah ; but I must keep my word to Mr. Walker. 
I promised that I would send to him." 

"Tell him, then, that I will not stir a foot out of this house on 
Thursday, of my own accord. On Thursday I shall be here ; and 
here I will remain all day, unless they take me hence by force." 

" But, Josiah " 

" Will you obey me, or I shall walk into Silverbridge myself and 
tell the man that I will not come to him." Then he arose from his 
chair and stretched forth his hand to his hat as though he were going 
forth immediately, on his way to Silverbridge. The night was now 
pitch dark, and the rain was falling, and abroad he would encounter 
all the severity of the pitiless winter. Still it might have been better 
that he should have gone. The exercise and the fresh air, even the 
wet and the mud, would have served to bring back his mind to reason. 
But his wife thought of the misery of the journey, of his scanty 
clothing, of his worn boots, of the need there was to preserve the 
raiment which he wore ; and she remembered that he was fasting, that 
he had eaten nothing since the morning, and that he was not fit to be 
alone. She stopped him, therefore, before he could reach the door. 

" Your bidding shall be done," she said, " of course." 

" Tell them, then, that they must seek me here if they want me." 

" But, Josiah, think of the parish, of the people who respect you, 
for their sakes let it not be said that you were taken away by 

" Was St. Paul not bound in prison ? Did he think of what the 
people might see ?" 

"If it were necessary, I would encourage you to bear it without 
a murmur." 


"It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not murmur. 
Murmur, indeed! Why does not your voice ascend to heaven with 
one loud wail against the cruelty of man ? " Then he went forth from 
the room into an empty chamber on the other side of the passage ; and 
his wife, when she followed him there after a few minutes, found him 
on his knees, with his forehead against the floor, and with his hands 
clutching at the scanty hairs of his head. Often before had she seen 
him so, on the same spot, half grovelling, half prostrate in prayer, 
reviling in his agony all things around him, nay, nearly all things 
above him, and yet striving to reconcile himself to his Creator by the 
humiliation of confession. 

It might be better with him now, if only he could bring himself to 
some softness of heart. Softly she closed the door, and placing the 
candle on the mantel-shelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly 
touched his hand with hers. He did not stir nor utter a word, but 
seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently than before. Then 
she kneeling there, aloud, but with low voice, with her thin hands 
clasped, uttered a prayer in which she asked her God to remove from 
her husband the bitterness of that hour. He listened till she had 
finished, and then he rose slowly to his feet. " It is in vain," said he. 
" It is all in vain. It is all in vain." Then he returned back to the 
parlour, and seating himself again in the arm-chair, remained there 
without speaking till past midnight. At last, when she told him that 
she herself was very cold, and reminded him that for the last hour 
there had been no fire, still speechless, he went up with her to 
their bed. 

Early on the following morning she contrived to let him know 
that she was about to send a neighbour's son over with a note to 
Mr. Walker, fearing to urge him further to change his mind ; but 
hoping that he might express his purpose of doing so when he 
heard that the letter was to be sent ; but he took no notice whatever 
of her words. At this moment he was reading Greek with his daughter, 
or rather rebuking her because she could not be induced to read Greek. 

" Oh, papa," the poor girl said, " don't scold me now. I am so 
unhappy because of all this." 

" And am not I unhappy ? " he said, as he closed the book. " My 
God, what have I done against thee, that my lines should be cast in 
such terrible places ?" 

The letter was sent to Mr. Walker. "He knows himself to be 
innocent," said the poor wife, writing what best excuse she knew how 
to make, " and thinks that he should take no step himself in such a 


matter. He will not employ a lawyer, and he says that he should 
prefer that he should be sent for, if the law requires his presence at 
Silverbridge on Thursday." All this she wrote, as though she felt 
that she ought to employ a high tone in defending her husband's pur- 
pose ; but she broke down altogether in the few words of the post- 
script. " Indeed, indeed I have done what I could!" Mr. Walker 
understood it all, both the high tone and the subsequent fall. 

On the Thursday morning, at about ten o'clock, a fly stopped at 
the gate of the Hogglestock Parsonage, and out of it there came two 
men. One was dressed in ordinary black clothes, and seemed from 
his bearing to be a respectable man of the middle class of life. He 
was, however, the superintendent of police for the Silverbridge district. 
The other man was a policeman, pure and simple, with the helmet- 
looking hat which has lately become common, and all the ordinary 
half-military and wholly disagreeable outward adjuncts of the profession. 
" Wilkins," said the superintendent, " likely enough I shall want you, 
for they tell me the gent is uncommon strange. But if I don't call 
you when I come out, just open the door like a servant, and mount up 
on the box when we're in. And don't speak nor say nothing." Then 
the senior policeman entered the house. 

He found Mrs. Crawley sitting in the parlour with her bonnet and 
shawl on, and Mr. Crawley in the arm-chair, leaning over the fire. " I 
suppose we had better go with you," said Mrs. Crawley directly the 
door was opened ; for of course she had seen the arrival of the fly from 
the window. 

" The gentleman had better come with us if he'll be so kind," said 
Thompson. " I've brought a close carriage for him." 

"But I may go with him ?" said the wife, with frightened voice. 
"I may accompany my husband. He is not well, sir, and wants 

Thompson thought about it for a moment before he spoke. There 
was room in the fly for only two, or if for three, still he knew his place 
better than to thrust himself inside together with his prisoner and his 
prisoner's wife. He had been specially asked by Mr. Walker to be 
very civil. Only one could sit on the box with the driver, and if the 
request was conceded the poor policeman must walk back. The walk, 
however, would not kill the policeman. " All right, ma'am," said 
Thompson; "that is, if the gentleman will just pass his word not 
to get out till I ask him." 

" He will not ! He will not ! " said Mrs. Crawley. 

" I will pass my word for nothing," said Mr. Crawley. 


Upon hearing this, Thompson assumed a very long face, and shook 
his head as he turned his eyes first towards the husband and then 
towards the wife, and shrugged his shoulders, and compressing his lips, 
blew out his breath, as though in this way he might blow off some of 
the mingled sorrow and indignation with which the gentleman's words 
afflicted him. 

Mrs. Crawley rose and came close to him. " You may take my 
word for it, he will not stir. You may indeed. He thinks it incum- 
bent on him not to give any undertaking himself, because he feels him- 
self to be so harshly used." 

" I don't know about harshness," said Thompson, briudling up. "A 
close carriage brought, and 

" I will walk. If I am made to go, I will walk," shouted Mr. 

" I did not allude to you, or to Mr. Walker," said the poor 
wife. "I know you have been most kind. I meant the harshness 
of the circumstances. Of course he is innocent, and you must feel 
for him." 

" Yes, I feel for him, and for you too, ma'am." 

" That is all I meant. He knows his own innocence, and therefore 
he is unwilling to give way in anything." 

" Of course he knows hisself, that's certain. But -he'd better come 
in the carriage, if only because of the dirt and slush." 

" He will go in the carriage ; and I will go with him. There will 
be room there for you, sir." 

Thompson looked up at the rain, and told himself that it was very 
cold. Then he remembered Mr. Walker's injunction, and bethought 
himself that Mrs. Crawley, in spite of her poverty, was a lady. He 
conceived even unconsciously the idea that something was due to her 
because of her poverty. " I'll go with the driver," said he, " but he'll 
only give hisself a deal of trouble if he attempts to get out." 

"He won't; he won't," said Mrs. Crawley. "And I thank you 
with all my heart." 

" Come along, then," said Thompson. 

She went up to her husband, hat in hand, and looking round to see 
that she was not watched, put the hat on his head, and then lifted him 
as it were from his chair. He did not refuse to be led, and allowed 
her to throw round his shoulders the old cloak which was hanging in 
the passage, and then he passed out, and was the first to seat himself 
in the Silverbridge fly. His wife followed him. and did not hear the 
blandishments with which Thompson instructed his myrmidon to 


follow through the mud on foot. Slowly they made their way through 
the lanes, and it was nearly twelve when the fly was driven into the 
yard of the " George and Vulture " at Silverbridge. 

Silverbridge, though it was blessed with a mayor and corporation, 
and was blessed also with a Member of Parliament all to itself, was 
not blessed with any court-house. The magistrates were therefore 
compelled to sit in the big room at the " George and Vulture," in which 
the county balls were celebrated, and the meeting of the West 
Barsetshire freemasons was held. That part of the country was, 
no doubt, very much ashamed of its backwardness in this respect, but 
as yet nothing had been done to remedy the evil. Thompson and his 
fly were therefore driven into the yard of the Inn, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Crawley were ushered by him up into a little bed-chamber close 
adjoining to the big room in which the magistrates were already assem- 
bled. "There's a bit of fire here," said Thompson, " and you can 
make yourselves a little warm." He himself was shivering with the 
cold. " When the gents is ready in there, I'll just come and fetch you." 

" I may go in with him ? " said Mrs. Crawley. 

"I'll have a chair for you at the end of the table, just nigh to 
him," said Thompson. " You can slip into it and say nothing to 
nobody." Then he left them and went away to the magistrates. 

Mr. Crawley had not spoken a word since he had entered the 
vehicle. Nor had she said much to him, but had sat with him holding 
his hand in hers. Now he spoke to her, " Where is it that we are ? " 
he asked. 

" At Silverbridge, dearest." 

" But what is this chamber ? And why are we here ? " 

" We are to wait here till the magistrates are ready. They are in 
the next room." 

" But this is the Inn ? " 

" Yes, dear, it is the Inn." 

" And I see crowds of people about." There were crowds of 
people about. There had been men in the yard, and others standing 
about on the stairs, and the public room was full of men who were 
curious to see the clergyman who had stolen twenty pounds, and to hear 
what would be the result of the case before the magistrates. He must be 
committed ; so, at least, said everybody ; but then there would be the 
question of bail. Would the magistrates let him out on bail, and who 
would be the bailsmen ? "Why are the people here ? " said Mr. Crawley. 

" I suppose it is the custom when the magistrates are sitting," said 
his wife, 

HI. a 


" They have come to see the degradation of a clergyman," said he; 
" and they will not be disappointed." 

" Nothing can degrade but guilt," said his wife. 

" Yes, misfortune can degrade, and poverty. A man is degraded 
when the cares of the world press so heavily upon him that he cannot 
rouse himself. They have come to look at me as though I were a 
hunted beast." 

" It is but their custom always on such days." 

" They have not always a clergyman before them as a criminal." 
Then he was silent for a while, while she was chafing his cold hands. 
" Would that I were dead, before they had brought me to this ! 
Would that I were dead ! " 

" Is it not right, dear, that we should all bear what He sends us ? " 

" Would that I were dead ! " he repeated. " The load is too 
heavy for me to bear, and I would that I were dead ! " 

The time seemed to be very long before Thompson returned and 
asked them to accompany him into the big room. When jie did 
so, Mr. Crawley grasped hold of his chair as though he had resolved 
that he would not go. But his wife whispered a word to him, and he 
obeyed her. " He will follow me," she said to the policeman. And in 
that way they went from the small room into the large one. Thompson 
went first ; Mrs. Crawley with her veil down came next ; and the 
wretched man followed his wife, with his ej-es fixed upon the ground 
and his hands clasped together upon his breast. He could at first 
have seen nothing, and could hardly have known where he was when 
they placed him in a chair. She, with a better courage, contrived to 
look round through her veil, and saw that there was a long board or 
table covered with green cloth, and that six or seven gentlemen were 
sitting at one end of it, while there seemed to be a crowd standing 
along the sides and about the room. Her husband was seated at the 
other end of the table, near the corner, and round the corner, so that 
she might be close to him, her chair had been placed. On the other 
side of him. there was another chair, now empty, intended for any 
professional gentleman whom he might choose to employ. 

There were five magistrates sitting there. Lord Lufton from 
Framley, was in the chair; a handsome man, still young, who was 
very popular in the county. The cheque which had been cashed had 
borne his signature, and he had consequently expressed his intention 
of not sitting at the board ; but Mr. Walker, desirous of having him 
there, had overruled him, showing him that the loss was not his loss. 
The cheque, if stolen, had not been stolen from him. He was not the 


prosecutor. " No, by Jove," said Lord Lufton, " if I could quash the 
whole thing, I'd do it at once ! " 

" You can't do that, my lord, but you may help us at the board," 
said Mr. Walker. 

Then there was the Hon. George De Courcy, Lord De Courcy's 
brother, from Castle Courcy. Lord De Courcy did not live in the 
county, but his brother did so, and endeavoured to maintain the glory 
of the family by the discretion of his conduct. He was not, perhaps, 
among the wisest of men, but he did very well as a country magistrate, 
holding his tongue, keeping his eyes open, and, on such occasions as 
this, obeying Mr. Walker in all things. Dr. Tempest was also there, 
the rector of the parish, he being both magistrate and clergyman. 
There were many in Silverbridge who declared that Dr. Tempest would 
have done far better to stay away when a brother clergyman was thus 
to be brought before the bench ; but it had been long since Dr. Tempest 
had cared what was said about him in Silverbridge. He had become 
so accustomed to the life he led as to like to be disliked, and to be 
enamoured of unpopularity. So when Mr. Walker had ventured to 
suggest to him that, perhaps, he might not choose to be there, he had 
laughed Mr. Walker to scorn. " Of course I shall be there," he said. 
" I am interested in the case, very much interested. Of course I 
shall be there." And had not Lord Lufton been present he would have 
made himself more conspicuous by taking the chair. Mr. Fothergill 
was the fourth. Mr. Fothergill was man of business to the Duke of 
Omnium, who was the great owner of property in and about Silver- 
bridge, and he was the most active magistrate in that part of 
the county. He was a sharp man, and not at all likely to have any 
predisposition in favour of a clergyman. The fifth was Dr. Thorne, 
of Chaldicotes, a gentleman whose name has been already men- 
tioned in these pages. He had been for many years a medical man 
practising in a little village in the further end of the county ; 
but it had come to be his fate, late in life, to marry a great 
heiress, with whose money the ancient house and domain of 
Chaldicotes had been purchased from the Sowerbys. Since then 
Dr. Thorne had done his duty well as a country gentleman, not, 
however, without some little want of smoothness between him and 
the duke's people. 

Chaldicotes lay next to the duke's territory, and the duke had 
wished to buy Chaldicotes. When Chaldicotes slipped through the 
duke's fingers and went into the hands of Dr. Thorne, or of 
Dr. Thome's wife, the duke had been very angry with Mr. Fother- 


gill. Hence it had come to pass that there had not always been 
smoothness between the duke's people and the Chaldicotes people. It 
was now rumoured that Dr. Thorne intended to stand for the county 
on the next vacancy, and that did not tend to make things smoother. 
On the right hand of Lord Lufton sat Lord George and Mr. Fother- 
gill, and beyond Mr. Fothergill sat Mr. Walker, and beyond Mr. Walker 
sat Mr. Walker's clerk. On the left hand of the chairman were 
Dr. Tempest and Dr. Thorne, and a little lower down was Mr. Zachary 
Winthrop, who held the situation of clerk to the magistrates. Many 
people in Silverbridge said that this was all wrong, as Mr. Winthrop 
was partner with Mr. Walker, who was always employed before the 
magistrates if there was any employment going for an attorney. For 
this, however, Mr. Walker cared very little. He had so much of 
his own way in Silverbridge, that he was supposed to care nothing for 

There were many other gentlemen in the room, and some who knew 
Mr. Crawley with more or less intimacy. He, however, took notice of 
no one, and when one friend, who had really known him well, came up 
behind and spoke to him gently leaning over his chair, the poor man 
hardly recognized his friend. 

" I'm sure your husband won't forget me," said Mr. Robarts, the 
clergyman of Framley, as he gave his hand to that lady across the back 
of Mr. Crawley 's chair. 

" No, Mr. Robarts, he does not forget you. But you must excuse 
him if at this moment he is not quite himself, It is a trying situation 
for a clergyman." 

" I can understand all that ; but I'll tell you why I have come. I 
suppose this inquiry will finish the whole affair, and clear up whatever 
may be the difficulty. But should it not do so, it may be just possible, 
Mrs. Crawley, that something may be said about bail. I don't under- 
stand much about it, and I daresay you do not either ; but if there 
should be anything of that sort, let Mr. Crawley name me. A brother 
clergyman will be best, and I'll have some other gentleman with me." 
Then he left her, not waiting for any answer. 

At the same time there was a conversation going on between 
Mr. Walker and another attorney standing behind him, Mr. Mason. 
" I'll go to him," said Walker, " and try to arrange it." So 
Mr. Walker seated himself in the empty chair beside Mr. Crawley, 
and endeavoured to explain to the wretched man, that he would do 
well to allow Mr. Mason to assist him. Mr. Crawley seemed to listen 
to all that was said, and then 'turned upon the speaker sharply: "I 


\vill have no one to assist me," lie said so loudly that every one in the 
room heard the words. " I am innocent. Why should I want assist- 
ance ? Nor have I money to pay for it." Mr. Mason made a quick 
movement forward, intending to explain that that consideration need 
offer no impediment, but was stopped by further speech from Mr. Crawley. 
" I will have no one to help me," said he, standing upright, and for the 
first time removing his hat from his head. " Go on, and do what it is 
you have to do." After that he did not sit down till the proceedings 
were nearly over, though he was invited more than once by Lord 
Lufton to do so. 

We need not go through all the evidence that was brought to bear 
upon the question. It was proved that money for the cheque was 
paid to Mr. Crawley' s messenger, and that this money was given to 
Mr. Crawley. When there occurred some little delay in the chain of 
evidence necessary to show that Mr. Crawley had signed and sent the 
cheque and got the money, he became impatient. " Why do you 
trouble the man?" he said. " I had the cheque, and I sent him ; I 
got the money. Has any one denied it, that you should strive to drive 
a poor man like that beyond his wits ?" Then Mr. Soarnes and the 
manager of the bank showed what inquiry had been made as soon as 
the cheque came back from the London bank ; how at first they had 
both thought that Mr. Crawley could of course explain the matter, and 
how he had explained it by a statement which was manifestly untrue. 
Then there was evidence to prove that the cheque could not have been 
paid to him by Mr. Soames, and as this was given, Mr. Crawley 
shook his head and again became impatient. " I erred in that," he 
exclaimed. " Of course I erred. In my haste I thought it was 
so, and in my haste I said so. I am not good at reckoning money 
and remembering sums ; but I saw that I had been wrong when 
my error was shown to me, and I acknowledged at once that I had 
been wrong." 

Up to this point he had behaved not only with so much spirit, but 
with so much reason, that his wife began to hope that the importance 
of the occasion had brought back the clearness of his mind, and that 
he would, even now, be able to place himself right as the inquiry went 
on. Then it was explained that Mr. Crawley had stated that the 
cheque had been given to him by Dean Arabin, as soon as it was shown 
that it could not have been given to him by Mr. Soames. In reference 
to this, Mr. Walker was obliged to explain that application had been 
made to the dean, who was abroad, and that the dean had stated that 
he had given fifty pounds to his friend. Mr. Walker explained also 


that the very notes of which this fifty pounds had consisted had been 
traced back to Mr. Crawley, and that they had had no connection with 
the cheque or with the money which had been given for the cheque at 
the bank. 

Mr. Soames stated that he had lost the cheque with a pocket-book ; 
that he had certainly lost it on the day on which he had called on 
Mr. Crawley at Hogglestock ; and that he missed his pocket-book on 
his journey back from Hogglestock to Barchester. At the moment 
of missing it he remembered that he had taken the book out from his 
pocket in Mr. Crawley 's room, and, at that moment, he had not 
doubted but that he had left it in Mr. Crawley 's house. He had 
written and sent to Mr. Crawley to inquire, but had been assured that 
nothing had been found. There had been no other property of value 
in the pocket-book, nothing but a few visiting cards and a memo- 
randum, and he had therefore stopped the cheque at the London bank, 
and thought no more about it. 

Mr. Crawley was then asked to explain in what way he came pos- 
sessed of the cheque. The question was first put by Lord Lufton ; but 
it soon fell into Mr. Walker's hands, who certainly asked it with all the 
kindness with which such an inquiry could be made. Could Mr. Crawley 
at all remember by what means that bit of paper had come into his 
possession, or how long he had had it ? He answered the last question 
first. " It had been with him for months." And why. had he kept it ? 
He looked round the room sternly, almost savagely, before he answered, 
fixing his eyes for a moment upon almost every face around him as he 
did so. Then he spoke. " I was driven by shame to keep it, and 
then by shame to use it." That this statement was true, no one in the 
room doubted. 

And then the other question was pressed upon him ; and he lifted 
up his hands, and raised his voice, and swore by the Saviour in whom 
he trusted, that he knew not from whence the money had come to him. 
Why then had he said that it had come from the dean ? He had 
thought so. The dean had given him money, covered up, in an enclo- 
sure, " so that the touch of the coin might not add to my disgrace in 
taking his alms," said the wretched man, thus speaking openly and 
freely in his agony of the shame which he had striven so persistently to 
hide. He had not seen the dean's monies as they had been given, 
and he had thought that the cheque had been with them. Beyond that 
he could tell them nothing. 

Then there was a conference between the magistrates and Mr. Walker, 
in which Mr. Walker submitted that the magistrates had no alternative 


but to commit the gentleman. To this Lord Lufton ' demurred, and 
with him Dr. Thome. 

" I believe, as I am sitting here," said Lord Lufton, " that he has 
told the truth, and that he does not know any more than I do from 
whence the cheque came." 

" I am quite sure he does not," said Dr. Thorne. 

Lord George remarked that it was the " queerest go he had ever 
come across." Dr. Tempest merely shook his head. Mr. Fothergill 
pointed out that even supposing the gentleman's statement to be true, 
it by no means went towards establishing the gentleman's innocence. 
The cheque had been traced to the gentleman's hands, and the gentle- 
man was bound to show how it had come into his possession. Even 
supposing that the gentleman had found the cheque in his house, which 
was likely enough, he was not thereby justified in changing it, and 
applying the proceeds to his own purposes. Mr. Walker told them 
that Mr. Fothergill was right, and that the only excuse to be made for 
Mr. Crawley was that he was out of his senses. 

" I don't see it," said Lord Lufton. "I might have a lot of paper 
money by me, and not know from Adam where I got it." 

" But you would have to show where you got it, my lord, when 
inquiry was made," said Mr. Fothergill. 

Lord Lufton, who was not particularly fond of Mr. Fothergill, and 
was very unwilling to be instructed by him in any of the duties of a 
magistrate, turned his back at once upon the duke's agent ; but within 
three minutes afterwards he had submitted to the same instructions 
from Mr. Walker. 

Mr. Crawley had again seated himself, and during this period of the 
affair was leaning over the table with his face buried on his arms. 
Mrs. Crawley sat by his side, utterly impotent as to any assistance, 
just touching him with her hand, and waiting behind her veil till she 
should be made to understand what was the decision of the magistrates. 
This was at last communicated to her, and to him, in a whisper by 
Mr. Walker. Mr. Crawley must understand that he was committed to 
take his trial at Barchester, at the next assizes, which would be held in 
April, but that bail would be taken ; his own bail in five hundred 
pounds, and that of two others in two hundred and fifty pounds each. 
And Mr. Walker explained further that he and the bailmen were ready, 
and that the bail-bond was prepared. The bailmen were to be the 
Eev. Mr. Eobarts, and Major Grantly. In five minutes the bond was 
signed and Mr. Crawley was at liberty to go away, a free man, till the 
Barchester Assizes should come round in April. 


Of all that was going on at this time Mr. Crawley knew little or 
nothing, and Mrs. Crawley did not know much. She did say a word 
of thanks to Mr. Robarts, and begged that the same might be said to 
the other gentleman. If she had heard the major's name she did not 
remember it. Then they were led out back into the bed-room, where 
Mrs. Walker was found, anxious to do something, if she only knew 
what, to comfort the wretched husband and the wretched wife. But 
what comfort or consolation could there be within their reach ? There 
was tea made ready for them, and sandwiches cut from the Inn larder. 
And there was sherry in the Inn decanter. But no such comfort as 
that was possible for either of them. 

They were taken home again in the fly, returning without the escort 
of Mr. Thompson, and as they went some few words were spoken by 
Mrs. Crawley. " Josiah," she said, " there will be a way out of this, 
even yet, if you will only hold up your head and trust." 

" There is a way out of it," he said. " There is a way. There is 
but one way." When he had so spoken she said no more, but resolved 
that her eye should never be off him, no, not for a moment. Then, 
when she had gotten him once more into that front parlour, she threw 
her arms round him and kissed him. 



tidings of what had been 
done by the magistrates at 
their petty sessions was com- 
municated the same night to 
Grace Crawley by Miss Pretty- 
man. Miss Anne Prettyman 
had heard the news within five 
minutes of the execution of 
the bail-bond, and had rushed 
to her sister with information 
as to the event. " They have 
found him guilty; they have, 
indeed. They have convicted 
him, or whatever it is, be- 
cause he couldn't say where 
he got it." " You do not 
mean that they have sent him 
to prison?" "No; not to 
prison ; not as yet, that is. I don't understand it altogether ; but 
he's to be tried again at the assizes. In the meantime he's to be out 
on bail. Major Grantly is to be the bail, he and Mr. Robarts. 
That, I think, was very nice of him." It was undoubtedly the fact 
that Miss Anne Prettyman had received an accession of pleasurable 
emotion when she learned that Mr. Crawley had not been sent away 
scathless, but had been condemned, as it were, to a public trial at 
the assizes. And yet she would have done anything in her power to 
save Grace Crawley, or even to save her father. And it must be 
explained that Miss Anne Prettyman was supposed to be specially 
efficient in teaching Roman history to her pupils, although she was 
so manifestly ignorant of the course of law in the country in which 
she lived. " Committed him," said Miss Prettyman, correcting her 
sister with scorn. " They have not convicted him. Had they con- 
victed him, there could be no question of bail." " I don't know how 
all that is, Annabella, but at any rate Major Grantly is to be the bails- 



man, and there is to be another trial at Barchester." " There cannot 
be more than one trial in a criminal case," said Miss Prettyman, 
" unless the jury should disagree, or something of that kind. I 
suppose he has been committed, and that the trial will take place at 
the assizes." " Exactly, that's just it." Had Lord Lufton appeared 
as lictor, and had Thompson carried the fasces, Miss Anne would have 
known more about it. 

The sad tidings were not told to Grace till the evening. Mrs. Crawley, 
when the inquiry was over before the magistrates, would fain have had 
herself driven to the Miss Prettyman's school, that she might see her 
daughter ; but she felt that to be impossible while her husband was in 
her charge. The father would of course have gone to his child, had 
the visit been suggested to him ; but that would have caused another 
terrible scene ; and the mother, considering it all in her mind, thought 
it better to abstain. Miss Prettyman did her best to make poor Grace 
think that the affair had gone so far favourably, did her best, that is, 
without saying anything which her conscience told her to be false. "It 
is to be settled at the assizes in April," she said. 

" And in the meantime what will become of papa ? " 

" Your papa will be at home, just as usual. He must have some 
one to advise him. I dare say it would have been all over now if he 
would have employed an attorney." 

" But it seems so hard that an attorney should be wanted." 

" My dear Grace, things in this world are hard." 

" But they are always harder for papa and mamma than for any- 
body else." In answer to this, Miss Prettyman made some remarks 
intended to be wise and kind at the same time. Grace, whose eyes 
were laden with tears, made no immediate reply to this, but reverted to 
her former statement, that she must go home. " I cannot remain, 
Miss Prettyman ; I am so unhappy." 

" Will you be more happy at home ? " 

" I can bear it better there." 

The poor girl soon learned from the intended consolations of those 
around her, from the ill-considered kindnesses of the pupils, and from 
words which fell from the servants, that her father had in fact been 
judged to be guilty, P,S far as judgment had as yet gone. " They do 
say, miss, it's only because he hadn't a lawyer," said the housekeeper. 
And if men so kind as Lord Lufton and Mr. Walker had made him out 
to be guilty, what could be expected from a stern judge down from 
London, who would know nothing about her poor father and his 
peculiarities, and from twelve jurymen who would be shopkeepers out 


of Barchester. It would kill her father, and then it would kill her 
mother ; and after that it would kill her also. And there was no money 
in the house at home. She knew it well. She had been paid three 
pounds a month for her services at the school, and the money for the 
last two months had been sent to her mother. Yet, badly as she 
wanted anything that she might be able to earn, she knew that she 
could not go on teaching. It had come to be acknowledged by both the 
Miss Prettymans that any teaching on her part for the present was im- 
possible. She would go home and perish with the rest of them. There 
was no room left for hope to her, or to any of her family. They had 
accused her father of being a common thief, her father whom she knew 
to be so nobly honest, her father whom she believed to be among the 
most devoted of God's servants. He was accused of a paltry theft, 
and the magistrates and lawyers and policemen among them had decided 
that the accusation was true ! How could she look the girls in the faco 
after that, or attempt to hold her own among the teachers ! 

On the next morning there came the letter from Miss Lily Dale, and 
with that in her hand she again went to Miss Prettyman. She must go 
home, she said. She must at any rate see her mother. Could Miss Pretty- 
man be kind enough to send her home. " I haven't sixpence to pay for 
anything," she said, bursting out into tears ; " and I haven't a right 
to ask for it." Then the statements which Miss Prettyman made in 
her eagerness to cover this latter misfortune were decidedly false. There 
was so much money owing to Grace, she said ; money for this, money 
for that, money for anything or nothing ! Ten pounds would hardly 
clear the account. " Nobody owes me anything ; but if you'll lend me 
five shillings ! " said Grace, in her agony. Miss Prettyman, as she 
made her way through this difficulty, thought of Major Grantly and his 
love. It would have been of no use, she knew. Had she brought them 
together on that Monday, Grace would have said nothing to him. 
Indeed such a meeting at such a time would have been improper. But, 
regarding Major Grantly, as she did, in the light of a millionaire, for 
the wealth of the archdeacon was notorious, she could not but think it 
a pity that poor Grace should be begging for five shillings. "You need 
not at any rate trouble yourself about money, Grace," said Miss Pretty- 
man. " "What is a pound or two more or less between you and me ? 
It is almost unkind of you to think about it. Is that letter in your 
hand anything for me to see, my dear ? " Then Grace explained that 
she did not wish to show Miss Dale's letter, but that Miss Dale had 
asked her to go to Allington. " And you will go," said Miss Prettyman. 
" It will be the best thing for you, and the best thing for your mother." 

n 2 


It was at last decided that Grace should go to her friend at 
Allington, and to Allington she went. She returned home for a day 
or two, and was persuaded by her mother to accept the invitation that 
had been given her. At Hogglestock, while she was there, new troubles 
came up, of which something shall shortly be told ; but they were 
troubles in which Grace could give no assistance to her mother, and 
which, indeed, though they were in truth troubles, as will be seen, 
were so far beneficent that they stirred her father up to a certain action 
which was in itself salutary. " I think it will be better that you should 
be away, dearest," said the mother, who now, for the first time, heard 
plainly all that poor Grace had to tell about Major Grantly ; Grace 
having, heretofore, barely spoken, in most ambiguous words, of Major 
Grantly as a gentleman whom she had met at Framley, and whom she 
had described as being "very nice." 

In old days, long ago, Lucy Eobarts, the present Lady Lufton, 
sister of the Kev. Mark Robarts, the parson of Framley, had sojourned 
for a while under Mr. Crawley's roof at Hogglestock. Peculiar circum- 
stances, which need not, perhaps, be told here, had given occasion for 
this visit. She had then resolved, for her future destiny had been 
known to her before she left Mrs. Crawley's house, that she would in 
coming days do much to befriend the family of her friend; but the 
doing of much had been very difficult. And the doing of anything had 
come to be very difficult through a certain indiscretion on Lord Lufton' s 
part. Lord Lufton had offered assistance, pecuniary assistance, to 
Mr. Crawl ey, which Mr. Crawl ey had rejected with outspoken anger. 
What was Lord Lufton to him that his lordship should dare to come to 
him with his paltry money in his hand ? But after a while, Lady 
Lufton, exercising some cunning in the operations of her friendship, 
had persuaded her sister-in-law at the Framley parsonage to have Grace 
Crawley over there as a visitor, and there she had been during the 
summer holidays previous to the commencement of our story. And 
there, at Framley, she had become acquainted with Major Grantly, who 
was staying with Lord Lufton at Framley Court. She had then said 
something to her mother about Major Grantly, something ambiguous, 
something about his being " very nice," and the mother had thought 
how great was the pity that her daughter, who was " nice " too in her 
estimation, should have so few of those adjuncts to assist her which 
come from full pockets. She had thought no more about it then ; but 
now she felt herself constrained to think more. " I don't quite under- 
stand why he should have come to Miss Prettyman on Monday ," 
said Grace, " because lie hardly knows her at all." 


"I suppose it was on business," said Mrs. Crawley. 

" No, mamma, it was not on business." 

" How can you tell, dear ? " 

" Because Miss Prettyman said it was, it was to ask after me. 
Oh, mamma, I must tell you. I know lie did like me." 

" Did he ever say so to you, dearest ? " 

" Yes, mamma." 

" And what did you tell him ? " 

" I told him nothing, mamma." 

" And did he ask to see you on Monday ? " 

"No, mamma ; I don't think he did. I think he understood it all 
too well, for I could not have spoken to him then." 

Mrs. Crawley pursued the cross-examination no further, but made 
up her mind that it would be better that her girl should bo away from 
her wretched home during this period of her life. If it were written in 
the book of fate that one of her children should be exempted from tho 
series of misfortunes which seemed to fall, one after another, almost as 
a matter of course, upon her husband, upon her, and upon her family ; 
if so great good fortune were in store for her Grace as such a mar- 
riage as this which seemed to be so nearly offered to her, it might 
probably be well that Grace should be as little at home as possible. 
Mrs. Crawley had heard nothing but good of Major Grantly ; but she 
knew that the Grantlys were proud rich people, who lived with their 
heads high up in the county, and it could hardly be that a son of the 
archdeacon would like to take his bride direct from Hogglestock 

It was settled that Grace should go to Allington as soon as a letter 
could be received from Miss Dale in return to Grace's note, and on the 
third morning after her arrival at home she started. None but they 
who have themselves been poor gentry, gentry so poor as not to know 
how to raise a shilling, can understand the peculiar bitterness of the 
trials which such poverty produces. The poverty of the normal poor 
does not approach it ; or, rather, the pangs arising from such poverty 
are altogether of a different sort. To be hungry and have no food, to 
be cold and have no fuel, to be threatened with distraint for one's few 
chairs and tables, and with the loss of the roof ovef one's head, all 
these miseries, which, if they do not positively reach, are so frequently 
near to reaching the normal poor, are, no doubt, the severest of the 
trials to which humanity is subjected. They threaten life, or, if not 
life, then liberty, reducing the abject one to a choice between captivity 
and starvation. By hook or crook, the poor gentleman or poor lady, 


let the one or the other be ever so poor, does not often conie to the 
last extremity of the workhouse. There are such cases, but they 
are exceptional. Mrs. Crawley, through all her sufferings, had never 
yet found her cupboard to be absolutely bare, or the bread-pan to be 
actually empty. But there are pangs to which, at the time, starvation 
itself would seem to be preferable. The angiy eyes of unpaid trades- 
men, savage with an anger which one knows to be justifiable ; the 
taunt of the poor servant who wants her wages ; the gradual relinquish- 
ment of habits which the soft nurture of earlier, kinder years had 
made second nature ; the wan cheeks of the wife whose malady demands 
wine ; the rags of the husband whose outward occupations demand 
decency ; the neglected children, who are learning not to be the 
children of gentlefolk ; and, worse than all, the alms and doles of 
half-generous friends, the waning pride, the pride that will not wane, 
the growing doubt whether it be not better to bow the head, and 
"acknowledge to all the world that nothing of the pride of station is left, 
that the hand is open to receive and ready to touch the cap, that the 
fall from the upper to the lower level has been accomplished, these 
are the pangs of poverty which drive the Crawleys of the world to the 
frequent entertaining of that idea of the bare bodkin. It was settled 
that Grace should go to Allington ; but how about her clothes ? And 
then, whence was to come the price of her journey ? 

" I don't think they'll mind about my being shabby at Allington. 
They live very quietly there." 

" But you say that Miss Dale is so very nice in all her ways." 
" Lily is very nice, mamma ; but I shan't mind her so much as her 
mother, because she knows it all. I have told her everything." 
" But you have given me all your money, dearest." 
" Miss Prettyman told me I was to come to her," said Grace, who 
had already taken some small sum from the schoolmistress, which at 
once had gone into her mother's pocket, and into household purposes. 
" She said I should be sure to go to Allington, and that of course I 
should go to her, as I must pass through Silverbridge." 

" I hope papa will not ask about it," said Mrs. Crawley. Luckily 
papa did not ask about it, being at the moment occupied much with 
other thoughts axA other troubles, and Grace was allowed to return by 
Silverbridge, and to take what was needed from Miss Prettyman. Who 
can tell of the mending and patching, of the weary wearing midnight 
hours of needlework which were accomplished before the poor girl went, 
so that she might not reach her friend's house in actual rags ? And 
when the work was ended, what was there to show for it ? I do not 


think that the idea of the bare bodkin, as regarded herself, ever flitted 
across Mrs. Crawley's brain, she being one of those who are very 
strong to endure ; but it must have occurred to her very often that the 
repose of the grave is sweet, and that there cometh after death a 
levelling and making even of things, which would at last cure all 
her evils. 

Grace no doubt looked forward to a levelling and making even of 
things, or perhaps even to something more prosperous than that, 
which should come to her relief on this side of the grave. She could 
not but have high hopes in regard to her future destiny. Although, 
as has been said, she understood no more than she ought to have 
understood from Miss Prettyman' s account of the conversation with 
Major Grantly, still, innocent as she was, she had understood much. 
She knew that the man loved her, and she knew also that she loved the 
man. She thoroughly comprehended that the present could be to her 
no time for listening to speeches of love, or for giving kind answers ; 
but still I think that she did look for relief on this side of the grave. 

" Tut, tut," said Miss Prettyman as Grace in vain tried to conceal 
her tears up in the private sanctum. " You ought to know me by this 
time, and to have learned that I can understand things." The tears had 
flown in return not only for the five gold sovereigns which Miss 
Prettyman had pressed into her hand, but on account of the prettiest, 
soft, grey merino frock that ever charmed a girl's eye. "I should like 
to know how many girls I have given dresses to, when they have been 
going out visiting. Law, my dear ; they take them, many of them, 
from us old maids, almost as if we were only paying our debts in giving 
them." And then Miss Anne gave her a cloth cloak, very warm, with 
pretty buttons and gimp trimmings, -just such a cloak as any girl 
might like to wear who thought that she would be seen out walking by 
her Major Grantly on a Christmas morning. Grace Crawley did not 
expect to be seen out walking by her Major Grantly, but nevertheless 
she liked the cloak. By the power of her practical will, and by her 
true sympathy, the elder Miss Prettyman had for a while conquered 
the annoyance which, on Grace's part, was attached to the receiving of 
gifts, by the consciousness of her poverty ; and when Miss Anne, with 
some pride in the tone of her voice, expressed a hope that Grace would 
think the cloak pretty, Grace put her arms pleasantly round her friend's 
neck, and declared that it was veiy pretty, the prettiest cloak in all 
the world ! 

Grace was met at the Guestwick railway- station by her friend 
Lilian Dale, and was driven over to Allington in a pony carnage 


belonging to Lilian's uncle, the squire of the parish. I think she will be 
excused in having put on her new cloak, not so much because of the cold 
as with a view of making the best of herself before Mrs. Dale. And 
yet she knew that Mrs. Dale would know all the circumstances of her 
poverty, and was very glad that it should be so. "I am so glad that 
you have come, dear," said Lily. " It will be such a comfort." 

" I am sure you are very good," said Grace. 

" And mamma is so glad. From the moment that we both talked 
ourselves into eagerness about it, while I was writing my letter, you 
know, we resolved that it must be so." 

" I'm afraid I shall be a great trouble to Mrs. Dale." 

" A trouble to mamma ! Indeed you "will not. You shall be a 
trouble to no one but me. I will have all the trouble myself, and the 
labour I delight in shall physic my pain." 

Grace Crawley could not during the journey be at home and at ease 
even with her friend Lily. She was going to a strange house under 
strange circumstances. Her father had not indeed been tried and 
found guilty of theft, but the charge of theft had been made against him, 
and the magistrates before whom it had been made had thought that 
the charge was true. Grace knew that all the local newspapers had 
told the story, and was of course aware that Mrs. Dale would have 
heard it. Her own mind was full of it, and though she dreaded to 
speak of it, yet she could not be silent. Miss Dale, who understood 
much of this, endeavoured to talk her friend into easiness ; but she 
feared to begin upon the one subject, and before the drive was over 
they were, both of them, too cold for much conversation. " There's 
mamma," said Miss Dale as they drove up, turning out of the street of 
the village to the door of 'Mrs. Dale's house. " She always knows, by 
instinct, when I am coming. You must understand now that you are 
among us, that mamma and I are not mother and daughter, but two 
loving old ladies, living together in peace and harmony. We do have 
our quarrels, whether the chicken shall be roast or boiled, but never 
anything beyond that. Mamma, here is Grace, starved to death ; and 
she says if you don't give her some tea she will go back at once." 

" I will give her some tea," said Mrs. Dale. 

" And I am worse than she is, because I've been driving. It's all 
up with Bertram and Mr. Green for the next week at least. It is 
freezing as hard as it can freeze, and they might as well try to hunt in 
Lapland as here." 

" They'll console themselves with skating," said Mrs. Dale. 

"Have you ever observed, Grace," said Miss Dale, "how much 


amusement gentlemen require, and how imperative it is that some other 
game should be provided when one game fails ? " 

"Not particularly," said Grace. 

" Oh, but it is so. * Now, with women, it is supposed that they can 
amuse themselves or live without amusement. Once or twice in a year, 
perhaps something is done for them. There is an arrow- shooting party, 
or a ball, or a picnic. But the catering for men's sport is never-ending, 
and is always paramount to everything else. And yet the pet game 
of the day never goes off properly. In partridge time, the partridges 
are wild, and won't come to be killed. In hunting time the foxes won't 
run straight, the wretches. They show no spirit, and will take to 
ground to save their brushes. Then comes a nipping frost, and skating 
is proclaimed ; but the ice is always rough, and the woodcocks have 
deserted the country. And as for salmon, when the summer comes 
round I do really believe that they suffer a great deal about the 
salmon. I'm sure they never catch any. So they go back to their 
clubs and their cards, and their billiards, and abuse their, cooks and 
blackball their friends. That's about it, mamma ; is it not ? " 

" You know more about it than I do, my dear." 

" Because I have to listen to Bertram, as you never will do. 
We've got such a Mr. Green down here, Grace. He's such a duck of a 
man, such top-boots and all the rest of it. And yet they whisper to 
me that he doesn't ride alwa} 7 s to hounds. And to see him play 
billiards is beautiful, only he never can make a stroke. I hope you play 
billiards, Grace, because uncle Christopher has just had a new table 
put up." 

" I never saw a billiard-table yet," said Grace. 

"Then Mr. Green shall teach you. He'll do anything that you 
ask him. If you don't approve the colour of the ball, he'll go to 
London to get you another one. Only you must be very careful about 
saying that you like anything before him, as he'll be sure to have it for 
you the next day. Mamma happened to say that she wanted a four- 
psnny postage-stamp, and he walked off to Guestwick to get it for her 
instantly, although it was lunch-time." 

" He did nothing of the kind, Lily," said her mother. " He was 
going to Guestwick, and was very good-natured, and brought me back 
a postage-stamp that I wanted." 

" Of course he's good-natured, I know that. And there's my cousin 
Bertram. He's Captain Dale, you know. But he prefers to be called 
Mr. Dale, because he has left the army, and has set up as junior 
squire of the parish. Uncle Christopher is the real squire ; only 


Bertram does all the work. And now you know all about us. I'm 
afraid you'll find us dull enough, unless you can take a fancy to 
Mr. Green." 

" Does Mr. Green live here ?" asked Grace. 

" No ; he does not live here. I never heard of his living anywhere. 
He was something once, but I don't know what ; and I don't think 
he's anything now in particular. But he's Bertram's friend, and like 
most men, as one sees them, he never has much to do. Does Major 
Grantly ever go forth to fight his country's battles ?" This last ques- 
tion she asked in a low whisper, so that the words did not reach ner 
mother. Grace blushed up to her eyes, however, as she answered, 

" I think that Major Grantly has left the army." 

" We shall get her round in a day or two, mamma," said Lily Dale 
to her mother that night. " I'm sure it will be the best thing to force 
her to talk of her troubles." 

" I would not use too much force, my dear." 

" Things are better when they're talked about. I'm sure they are. 
And it will be good to make her accustomed to speak of Major Grantly. 
From what Mary Walker tells me, he certainly means it. And if so, 
she should be ready for it when it comes." 

" Do not make her ready for what may never come." 

" No, mamma ; but she is at present such a child that she knows 
nothing of her own powers. She should be made to understand that 
it is possible that even a Major Grantly may think himself fortunate in 
being allowed to love her." 

" I should leave all that to Nature, if I were you," said Mrs. Dale. 


LORD LUFTON, as he drove home to Framley after the meeting of the 
magistrates at Silverbridge, discussed the matter with his brother-in- 
law, Mark Rob arts, the clergyman. Lord Lufton was driving a dog- 
cart, and went along the road at the rate of twelve miles an hour. "I'll 
tell you what it is, Mark," he said, " that man is innocent ; but if he 
won't employ lawyers at his trial, the jury will find him guilty." 
" I don't know what to think about it," said the clergyman. 


" Were you in the room when he protested so vehemently that he 
didn't know where he got the money ? " 

" I was in the room all the time." 

" And did you not believe him when he said that ? " 

Yes, I think I did." 

"Anybody must have believed him, except old Tempest, who 
never believes anybody, and Fothergill, who always suspects everybody. 
The truth is, that he had found the cheque and put it by, and did not 
remember anything about it." 

" But, Lufton, surely that would amount to stealing it." 

" Yes, if it wasn't that he is such a poor, cracked, crazy creature, 
with his mind all abroad. I think Soames did drop his book in his 
house. I'm sure Soames would not say so unless he was quite confi- 
dent. Somebody has picked it up, and in some way the cheque has got 
into Crawley's hand. Then he has locked it up and has forgotten all 
about it ; and when that butcher threatened him, he has put his hand 
upon it, and he has thought, or believed, that it had come from Soames 
or from the dean, or from heaven, if you will. When a man is so 
crazy as that, you can't judge of him as you do of others." 

" But a jury must judge of him as it would of others." 

"And therefore there should be a lawyer to tell the jury what to 
do. They should have somebody up out of the parish to show that he 
is beside himself half his time. His wife would be the best person, 
only it would be hard lines on her." 

" Very hard. And after all he would only escape by being shown 
to be mad." 

"And he is mad." 

" Mrs. Proudie would come upon him in such a case as that, and 
sequester his living." 

" And what will Mrs. Proudie do when he's a convicted thief? 
Simply unfrock him, and take away his living altogether. Nothing on 
earth should induce me to find him guilty if I were on a jury." 

" But you have committed him." 

" Yes, I've been one, at least, in doing so. I simply did that 
which Yfalker told us we must do. A magistrate is not left to himself 
as a juryman is. I'd eat the biggest pair of boots in Barchester before 
I found him guilty. I say, Mark, you must talk it over with the 
women, and see what can be done for them. Lucy tells me that they're 
so poor, that if they have bread to eat, it's as much as they have." 

On this evening Archdeacon Grantly and his wife dined and slept at 
Framley Court, there having been a very long family friendship between 


old Lady Lufton and the Grantlys, and Dr. Thome with his wife, from 
Chaldicotes, also dined at Framley. There was also there another 
clergyman from Barchester, Mr. Champion, one of the prebends of the 
cathedral. There were only three now who had houses in the city 
since the retrenchments of the ecclesiastical commission had come into 
full force. And this Mr. Champion was dear to the Dowager Lady 
Lufton, because he carried on worthily the clerical war against the 
bishop which had raged in Barsetshire ever since Dr. Proudie had come 
there, which war old Lady Lufton, good and pious and charitable as 
she was, considered that she was bound to keep up, even to the knife, 
till Dr. Proudie and all his satellites should have been banished into 
outer darkness. As the light of the Proudies still shone brightly, it was 
probable that poor old Lady Lufton might die before her battle was 
accomplished. She often said that it would be so, but when so saying, 
always expressed a wish that the fight might be carried on after her 
death. " I shall never, never rest in my grave," she had once said to 
the archdeacon, " while that woman sits in your father's palace." For 
the archdeacon's father had been Bishop of Barchester before Dr. 
Proudie. What mode of getting rid of the bishop or his wife Lady 
Lufton proposed to herself, I am unable to say ; but I think she lived in 
hopes that in some way it might be done. If only the bishop could 
have been found to have stolen a cheque for twenty pounds instead of 
poor Mr. Crawley, Lady Lufton would, I think, have been satisfied. 

In the course of these battles Framley Court would sometimes 
assume a clerical aspect, have a prevailing hue, as it were, of black 
coats, which was not altogether to the taste of Lord Lufton, and as to 
which he would make complaint to his wife, and to Mark Eobarts, 
himself a clergyman. " There's more of this than I can stand," he'd 
say to the latter. ''There's a deuced deal more of it than you like 
yourself, I know." 

" It's not for me to like or dislike. It's a great thing having your 
mother in the parish." 

" That's all very well; and of course she'll do as she likes. She 
may ask whom she pleases here, and I shan't interfere. It's the same 
as though it was her own house. But I shall take Lucy to Lufton." 
Now Lord Lufton had been building his house at Lufton for the last 
seven years, and it was not yet finished, or nearly finished, if all that 
his wife and mother said was true. And if they could have their way, 
it never would be finished. And so, in order that Lord Lufton might 
not be actually driven away by the turmoils of ecclesiastical contest, 
the younger Lady Lufton would endeavour to moderate both the wrath 


and the zeal of the elder one, and would struggle against the coming 
clergymen. On this day, however, three sat at the board at Framley, 
and Lady Lufton, in her justification to her son, swore that the invita- 
tion had been given by her daughter-in-law. "You know, my dear," 
the dowager^aid to Lord Lufton, " something must be done for these 
poor Crawleys ; and as the dean is away, Lucy wants to speak to the 
archdeacon about them." 

" And the archdeacon could not subscribe his ten- pound note without 
having Mr. Champion to back him ? " 

" My dear Ludovic, you do put it in such a way." 

" Never mind, mother. I've no special dislike to Champion ; only 
as you are not paid five thousand a year for your trouble, it is rather 
hard that you should have to do all the work of opposition bishop in 
the diocese." 

It was felt by them all, including Lord Lufton himself, who 
became so interested in the matter as to forgive the black coats before 
the evening was over, that this matter of Mr. Crawley's committal 
was very serious, and demanded the full energies of their party. It 
was known to them all that the feeling at the palace was inimical to 
Mr. Crawley. " That she-Beelzebub hates him for his poverty, and 
because Arabin brought him into the diocese," said the archdeacon, 
permitting himself to use very strong language in his allusion to the 
bishop's wife. It must be recorded on his behalf that he used the 
phrase in the presence only of the gentlemen of the party. I think he 
might have whispered the word into the ear of his confidential friend 
old Lady Lufton, and perhaps have given no offence ; but he would not 
have ventured to use such words aloud in the presence of ladies. 

" You forget, archdeacon," said Dr. Thorne, laughing, " that the 
she-Beelzebub is my wife's particular friend." 

" Not a bit of it," said the archdeacon. " Your wife knows better 
than that. You tell her what I call her, and if she complains of the 
name, I'll unsay it." It may therefore be supposed that Dr. Thorne, 
and Mrs. Thorne, and the archdeacon, knew each other intimately, and 
understood each other's feelings on these matters. 

It was quite true that the palace party was inimical to Mr. Crawley. 
Mr. Crawley undoubtedly was poor, and had not been so submissive to 
episcopal authority as it behoves any clergyman to be whose loaves 
and fishes are scanty. He had raised his back more than once against 
orders emanating from the palace in a manner that had made the hairs 
on the head of the bishop's wife to stand almost on end, and had taken 
as much upon himself as though his living had been worth twelve 


hundred a year. Mrs. Proudie, almost as energetic in her language as 
the archdeacon, had called him a beggarly perpetual curate. " We 
must have perpetual curates, my dear," the bishop had said. " They 
should know their places then. But what can you expect of a creature 
from the deanery ? All that ought to be altered. The dean should 
have no patronage in the diocese. No dean should have any patronage. 
It is an abuse from the beginning to the end. Dean Arabin, if he had 
any conscience, would be doing the duty at Hogglestock himself." How 
the bishop strove to teach his wife, with mildest words, what really 
ought to be a dean's duty, and how the wife rejoined by teaching her 
husband, not in the mildest words, what ought to be a bishop's duty, 
we will not further inquire here. The fact that such dialogues took 
place at the palace is recorded simply to show that the palatial feeling 
in Barchester ran counter to Mr. Crawley. 

And this was cause enough, if no other cause existed, for partiality 
to Mr. Crawley at Framley Court. But, as has been partly explained, 
there existed, if possible, even stronger ground than this for adherence 
to the Crawley cause. The younger Lady Lufton had known the 
Crawleys intimately, and the elder Lady Lufton had reckoned them 
among the neighbouring clerical families of her acquaintance. Both 
these ladies were therefore staunch in their defence of Mr. Crawley. 
The archdeacon himself had his own reasons, reasons which for the 
present he kept altogether within his own bosom, for wishing that 
Mr. Crawley had never entered the diocese. Whether the perpetual 
curate should or should not be declared to be a thief, it would be 
terrible to him to have to call the child of that perpetual curate his 
daughter-in-law. But not the less on this occasion was he true to his 
order, true to his side in the diocese, true to his hatred of the palace. 

" I don't believe it for a moment," he said, as he took his place on 
the rug before the fire in the drawing-room when the gentlemen came in 
from their wine. The ladies understood at once what it was that he 
couldn't believe. Mr. Crawley had for the moment so usurped the 
county that nobody thought of talking of anything else. 

" How is it, then," said Mrs. Thome, "that Lord Lufton, and my 
husband, and the other wiseacres at Silverbridge, have committed him 
for trial?" 

" Because we were told to do so by the lawyer," said Dr. Thorne. 

" Ladies will never understand that magistrates must act in accord- 
ance with the law," said Lord Lufton. 

" But you all say he's not guilty," said Mrs. Eobarts. 

" The fact is, that the magistrates cannot try the question," said 


the archdeacon ; " they only hear the primary evidence. In this case 
I don't believe Crawley would ever have been committed if he had 
employed an attorney, instead of speaking for himself." 

" Why didn't somebody make him have an attorney ? " said Lady 

" I don't think any attorney in the world could have spoken for him 
better than he spoke for himself," said Dr. Thorne. 

" And yet you committed him," said his wife. " What can we do 
for him ? Can't we pay the bail, and send him off to America ? " 

" A jury will never find him guilty," said Lord Lufton. 

" And what is the truth of it ?" asked the younger Lady Lufton. 

Then the whole matter was discussed again, and it was settled 
among them all that Mr. Crawley had undoubtedly appropriated the 
cheque through temporary obliquity of judgment, obliquity of judg- 
ment and forgetfulness as to the source from whence the cheque had 
come to him. " He has picked it up about the house, and then has 
thought that it was his own," said Lord Lufton. Had they come to the 
conclusion that such an appropriation of money had been made by one 
of the clergy of the palace, by one of the Proudeian party, they would 
doubtless have been very loud and very bitter as to the iniquity of the 
offender. They would have said much as to the weakness of the bishop 
and the wickedness of the bishop's wife, and would have declared the 
appropriator to have been as very a thief as ever picked a pocket or opened 
a till ; but they were unanimous in their acquittal of Mr. Crawley. 
It had not been his intention, they said, to be a thief, and a man should 
be judged only by his intention. It must now be their object to induce 
a Barchester jury to look at the matter in the same light. 

" When they come to understand how the land lies," said the arch- 
deacon, " they will be all right. There's not a tradesman in the city 
who does not hate that woman as though she were " 

" Archdeacon," said his wife, cautioning him to repress his energy. 

" Their bills are all paid by this new chaplain they've got, and he 
is made to claim discount on every leg of mutton," said the archdeacon. 
Arguing from which fact, or from which assertion, he came to the 
conclusion that no Barchester jury would find Mr. Crawley guilty. 

But it was agreed on all sides that it would not be well to trust to 
the unassisted friendship of the Barchester tradesmen. Mr. Crawley 
must be provided with legal assistance, and this must be furnished to 
him whether he should be willing or unwilling to receive it. That there 
would be a difficulty was acknowledged. Mr. Crawley was known to be 
a man not easy of persuasion, with a will of his own, with a great 


energy of obstinacy on points which he chose to take up as being of 
importance to his calling, or to his own professional status. He had 
pleaded his own cause before the magistrates, and it might be that he 
would insist on doing the same thing before the judge. At last 
Mr. Robarts, the clergyman of Framley, was deputed from the knot of 
Crawl eian advocates assembled in Lady Lufton's drawing-room, to 
undertake the duty of seeing Mr. Crawley, and of explaining to him 
that his proper defence was regarded as a matter appertaining to tho 
clergy and gentry generally of that part of the country, and that for 
the sake of the clergy and gentry the defence must of course be properly 
conducted. In such circumstances the expense of the defence would of 
course be borne by the clergy and gentry concerned. It was thought 
that Mr. Robarts could put the matter to Mr. Crawley with such a 
mixture of the strength of manly friendship and the softness of clerical 
persuasion, as to overcome the recognized difficulties of tho task. 



TIDINGS of Mr. Crawley's fate reached the palace at Barchester on the 
afternoon of the day on which the magistrates had committed him. All 
such tidings travel very quickly, conveyed by imperceptible wires, and 
distributed by indefatigable message boys whom Rumour seems to 
supply for the purpose. Barchester is twenty miles from Silverbridge 
by road, and more than forty by railway. I doubt whether any one 
was commissioned to send the news along the actual telegraph, and 
yet Mrs. Proudie knew it before four o'clock. But she did not know it 
quite accurately. "Bishop," she said, standing at her husband's study 
door. " They have committed that man to gaol. There was no help 
for them unless they had forsworn themselves." 

" Not forsworn themselves, my dear," said the bishop, striving, as 
was usual with him, by some meek and ineffectual word to teach his 
wife that she was occasionally led by her energy into error. He never 
persisted in the lessons when he found, as was usual, that they were 
taken amiss. 

" I say forsworn themselves ! " said Mrs. Proudie ; " and now what 
do you mean to do ? This is Thursday, and of course the man must 


not be allowed to desecrate the church of Hogglestock by performing 
the Sunday services." 

" If he has been committed, my dear, and is in prison, " 

" I said nothing about prison, bishop." 

" Gaol, my dear." 

" I say they have committed him to gaol. So my informant tells me. 
But of course all the Plurnstead and Frainley set will move heaven and 
earth to get him out, so that he may be there as a disgrace to the diocese. 
I wonder how the dean will feel when he hears of it ! I do, indeed. 
For the dean, though he is an idle, useless man, with no church principles, 
and no real piety, still he has a conscience. I think he has a conscience." 

" I'm sure he has, my dear." 

" "Well ; let us hope so. And if he has a conscience, what must 
be his feelings when he hears that this creature whom he brought into 
the diocese has been committed to gaol along with common felons." 

" Not with felons, my dear ; at least, I should think not." 

" I say with common felons ! A downright robbery of twenty 
pounds, just as though he had broken into the bank ! And so he did, 
with sly artifice, which is worse in such hands than a crowbar. And 
now what are we to do ? Here is Thursday, and something must be 
done before Sunday for the souls of those poor benighted creatures at 
Hogglestock." Mrs. Proudie was ready for the battle, and was even 
now sniffing the blood afar-off. " I believe it's a hundred and thirty 
pounds a year," she said, before the bishop had collected his thoughts 
sufficiently for a reply. 

" I think we must find out, first of all, whether he is really to be 
shut up in prison," said the bishop. 

" And suppose he is not to be shut up. Suppose they have been 
weak, or untrue to their duty and from what we know of the' magis- 
trates of Barsetshire, there is too much reason to suppose that they 
will have been so ; suppose they have let him out, is he to go about 
like a roaring lion among the souls of the people ?" 

The bishop shook in his shoes. When Mrs. Proudie began to talk 
of the souls of the people he always shook in his shoes. She had an 
eloquent way of raising her voice, over the word souls that was qualified 
to make any ordinary .man shake in his shoes. The bishop was a con- 
scientious man, and well knew that poor Mr. Crawley, even though he 
might have become a thief under terrible temptation, would not roar at 
Hogglestock to the injury of any man's soul. He was aware that this 
poor clergyman had done his duty laboriously and efficiently, and ho vras 
also aware that though he might have been committed by the inagis- 

IV, I 


trates, and then let out upon bail, he should not be regarded now, in 
these days before his trial, as a convicted thief. But to explain all this 
to Mrs. Proudie was beyond his power. He knew well that she would 
not hear a word in mitigation of Mr. Crawley's presumed offence. 
Mr. Crawley belonged to the other party, and Mrs. Proudie was a 
thorough-going partisan. I know a man, an excellent fellow, who, 
being himself a strong politician, constantly expresses a belief that all 
politicians opposed to him are thieves, child-murderers, parricides, 
lovers of incest, demons upon the earth. He is a strong partisan, but 
not, I think, so strong as Mrs. Proudie. He says that he believes all 
evil of his opponents ; but she really believed the evil. The arch- 
deacon had called Mrs. Proudie a she-Beelzebub ; but that was a simple 
ebullition of mortal hatred. He believed her "to be simply a vulgar, 
interfering, brazen-faced virago. Mrs. Proudie in truth believed that 
the archdeacon was an actual emanation from Satan, sent to those parts 
to devour souls, as she would call it, and that she herself was an 
emanation of another sort, sent from another source expressly to 
Barchester, to prevent such devouring, as far as it might possibly be 
prevented by a mortal agency. The bishop knew it all, understood it 
all. He regarded the archdeacon as a clergyman belonging to a party 
opposed to his party, and he disliked the man. He knew that from 
his first coming into the diocese he had been encountered with enmity 
by the archdeacon and the archdeacon's friends. If left to himself he 
could feel and to a certain extent could resent such enmity. But he 
had no faith in his wife's doctrine of emanations. He had no faith in 
many things which she believed religiously ; and yet what could he 
do ? If he attempted to explain, she would stop him before he had got 
through the first half of his first sentence. 

"If he is out on bail ," commenced the bishop. 

" Of course he will be out on bail." 

" Then I think he should feel " 

" Feel ! such men never feel ! What feeling can one expect from 
a convicted thief ? " 

" Not convicted as yet, my dear," said the bishop. 

"A convicted thief," repeated Mrs. Proudie; and she vociferated 
the words in such a tone that the bishop resolved that he would for the 
future let the word convicted pass without notice. After all she was 
only using the phrase in a peculiar sense given to it by herself. 

" It won't be proper, certainly, that he should do the services," 
suggested the bishop. 

" Proper ! It would be a scandal to the whole diocese. How 



could he raise his head as he pronounced the eighth commandment ? 
That must be at least prevented." 

The bishop, who was seated, fretted himself in his chair, moving 
about with little movements. He knew that there was a misery coming 
upon him ; and, as far as he could see, it might become a great misery, 
a huge blistering sore upon him. When miseries came to him, as 
they did not unfrequently, he would unconsciously endeavour to fathom 
them and weigh them, and then, with some gallantry, resolve to bear 
them, if he could find that their depth and weight were not too great 
for his powers of endurance. He would let the cold wind whistle by 
him, putting up the collar of his coat, and would encounter the winter 
weather without complaint. And he would be patient under the hot 
sun, knowing well that tranquillity is best for those who have to bear 
tropical heat. But when the storm threatened to knock him off his 
logs, when the earth beneath him became too hot for his poor tender 
feet, what could he do then ? There had been with him such 
periods of misery, during which he had wailed inwardly and had 
confessed to himself that the wife of his bosom was too much for him. 
Now the storm seemed to be coming very roughly. It would be 
demanded of him that he should exercise certain episcopal authority 
which he knew did not belong to him. Now, episcopal authority 
admits of being stretched or contracted according to the character of 
the bishop who uses it. It is not always easy for a bishop himself to 
know what he may do, and what he may not do. He may certainly 
give advice to any clergyman in his diocese, and he may give it in such 
form that it will have in it something of authority. Such advice coming 
from a dominant bishop to a clergyman with a submissive mind, has in 
it very much of authority. But Bishop Proudie knew that Mr. Crawley 
was not a clergyman with a submissive mind, and he feared that ho 
himself, as regarded from Mr. Crawley's point of view, was not a 
dominant bishop. And yet he could only act by advice. " I will write 
to him," said the bishop, " and will explain to him that as he is- 
circumstanced he should not appear in the reading desk." 

" Of course he must not appear in the reading desk. That scandal 
must at any rate be inhibited." Now the bishop did not at all like the 
use of the word inhibited, understanding well that Mrs. Proudie 
intended it to bo understood as implying some episcopal command 
against which there should be no appeal ; but he let it pass. 

"I will write to him, my dear, to-night." 

" And Mr. Thumble can go over with the letter the first thing in 
the morning." 


" Will not the post be better ? " " No, bishop ; certainly not." 

" He would get it sooner, if I write to-night, rny dear." 

" In either case he will get it to-morrow morning. An honr or two 
will not signify, and if Mr. Thumble takes it himself we shall know how 
it is received. It will be well that Thumble should be there in person 
as he will want to look for lodgings in the parish." 

" But, my dear " 

"Well, bishop?" 

" About lodgings ? I hardly think that Mr. Thumble, if we 
decide that Mr. Thumble shall undertake the duty " 

" We have decided that Mr. Thumble should undertake the duty. 
That is decided." 

" But I do not think he should trouble himself to look for lodgings 
at Hogglestock. He can go over on the Sundays." 

" And who is to do the parish work ? Would you have that man, 
a convicted thief, to look after the schools, and visit the sick, and 
perhaps attend the dying ? " 

" There will be a great difficulty ; there will indeed," said the 
bishop, becoming very unhappy, and feeling that he was driven by 
circumstances either to assert his own knowledge or teach his wife 
something of the law with reference to his position as a bishop. 
" Who is to pay Mr. Thumble ? " 

11 The income of the parish must be sequestrated, and he must be paid 
out of that. Of course he must have the income while he does the work." 

" But, my dear, I cannot sequestrate the man's income." 

"I don't believe it, bishop. If the bishop cannot sequestrate, who 
can ? But you are always timid in exercising the authority put into 
your hands for wise purposes. Not sequestrate the income of a man 
who has been proved to be a thief ! You leave that to us, and we will 
manage it." The " us " here named comprised Mrs. Proudie and the 
bishop's managing chaplain. 

Then the bishop was left alone for an hour to write the letter which 
Mr. Thumble was to carry over to Mr. Crawley, and after a while he 
did write it. Before he commenced the task, however, he sat for some 
moments in his arm-chair close by the fire-side, asking himself whether 
it might not be possible for him to overcome his enemy in this matter. 
How would it go with him suppose he were to leave the letter unwritten, 
and send in a message by his chaplain to Mrs. Proudie, saying that as 
Mr. Crawley was out on bail, the parish might be left for the present 
without episcopal interference ? She could not make him interfere. 
She could not force him to write the letter. So, at least, he said to 


himself. But as he said it, he almost thought that she could do these 
things. In the last thirty years, or more, she had ever contrived hy 
some power latent in her to have her will effected. But what would 
happen if now, even now, he were to rebel ? That he would personally 
become very uncomfortable, he was well aware, but he thought that he 
could bear that. The food would become bad, mere ashes between his 
teeth, the daily modicum of wine would lose its flavour, the chimneys 
would all smoke, the wind would come from the east, and the servants 
would not answer the bell. Little miseries of that kind would crowd 
upon him. He had arrived at a time of life in which such miseries 
make such men very miserable ; but yet he thought that he could 
endure them. And what other wretchedness would come to him ? 
She would scold him, frightfully, loudly, scornfully, and worse than 
all, continually. But of this he had so much habitually, that anything 
added might be borne also ; if only he could be sure that the scoldings 
should go on in private, that the world of the palace should not be 
allowed to hear the revilings to which he would be subjected. But to 
be scolded publicly was the great evil which he dreaded beyond all 
evils. He was well aware that the palace would know his misfortune, 
that it was known, and freely discussed by all, from the examining 
chaplain down to the palace boot-boy ; nay, that it was known to all 
the diocese ; but yet he could smile upon those around him, and look 
as though he held his own like other men, unless when open violence 
was displayed. But when that voice was heard aloud along the 
corridors of the palace, and when he was summoned imperiously by the 
woman, calling for her bishop, so that all Barchester heard it, and 
when he was compelled to creep forth from his study, at the sound of 
that summons, with distressed face, and shaking hands, and short 
hurrying steps, a being to be pitied even by a deacon, not venturing 
to assume an air of masterdom should he chance to meet a housemaid 
on the stairs, then, at such moments as that, he would feel that any 
submission was better than the misery which he suffered. And he 
well knew that should he now rebel, the whole house would be in a 
turmoil. He would be bishoped here, and bishoped there, before the 
eyes of all palatial men and women, till life would be a burden to him. 
So he got up from his seat over the fire, and went to his desk and 
wrote the letter. The letter was as follows : 

" The Palace, Barchester, December, 18G . 

" REVEREND Sra, (he left out the dear, because he knew that if ho 
inserted it he would be compelled to write the letter over again.) 


" I have heard to-day with the greatest trouble of spirit, that you 
have been taken before a bench of magistrates assembled at Silver- 
bridge, having been previously arrested by the police in your parsonage 
house at Hogglestock, and that the magistrates of Silverbridge have 
committed you to take your trial at the next assizes at Barchester, on a 
charge of theft. 

"Far be it from me to prejudge the case. You will understand, 
reverend sir, that I express no opinion whatever as to your guilt or 
innocence in this matter. If you have been guilty, may the Lord give 
you grace to repent of your great sin and to make such amends as may 
come from immediate acknowledgment and confession. If you are 
innocent, may He protect you, and make your innocence to shine 
before all men. In either case may the Lord be with you and keep 
your feet from further stumbling. 

" But I write to you now as your bishop, to explain to you that 
circumstanced as you are, you cannot with decency perform the church 
services of your parish. I have that confidence in you that I doubt not 
you will agree with me in this, and will be grateful to me for relieving 
you so far from the immediate perplexities of JOUT position. I have, 
therefore, appointed the Rev. Caleb Thumble to perform the duties of 
incumbent of Hogglestock till such time as a jury shall have decided 
upon your case at Barchester ; and in order that you may at once 
become acquainted with Mr. Thumble, as will be most convenient that 
you should do, I will commission him to deliver this letter into your 
hand personally to-morrow, trusting that you will receive him with that 
brotherly spirit in which he is sent upon this painful mission. 

" Touching the remuneration to which Mr. Thumble will become 
entitled for his temporary ministrations in the parish of Hogglcstock, 
I do not at present lay down any strict injunction. He must, at any 
rate, be paid at a rate not less than that ordinarily afforded for a curate. 

" I will once again express my fervent hope that the Lord may 
bring you to see the true state of your own soul, and that he ma} 7 - fill 
you with the grace of repentance, so that the bitter waters of tho 
present hour may not pass over your head and destroy you. 
" I have the honour to be, 

" Reverend Sir, 
" Your faithful servant in Christ, 

" T. BAKNUM."* 

* Baron um Castrum having been the old Roman name from which the modern 
Barchester is derived, the bishops of the diocese have always signed themselves 


The bishop had hardly finished his letter when Mrs. Proudie 
returned to the study, followed by the Rev. Caleb Thumble. Mr. Thumble 
was a little man, about forty years of age, who had a wife and children 
living in Barchester, and who existed on such chance clerical crumbs 
as might fall from the table of the bishop's patronage. People in 
Barchester said that Mrs. Thumble was a cousin of Mrs. Proudie's ; 
but as Mrs. Proudie stoutly denied the connection, it may be supposed 
that the people of Barchester were wrong. And, had Mr. Thumble's 
wife in truth been a cousin, Mrs. Proudie would surely have provided 
for him during the many years in which the diocese had been in her 
hands. No such provision had been made, and Mr. Thumble, who 
had now been living in the diocese for three years, had received 
nothing else from the bishop than such chance employment as this 
which he was now to undertake at Hoggiestock. He was a humble, 
mild-voiced man, when within the palace precincts, and had so far 
succeeded in making his way among his brethen in the cathedral city 
as to be employed not unfrequently for absent minor canons in 
chanting the week-day services, being remunerated for his work at the 
rate of about two shillings and sixpence a service. 

The bishop handed his letter to his wife, observing in an off-hand 
kind of way that she might as well see what he said. " Of course I 
shall read it," said Mrs. Proudie. And the bishop winced visibly, 
because Mr. Thumble was present. " Quite right," said Mrs. Proudie, 
" quite right to let him know that you knew that he had been arrested, 
actually arrested by the police." 

" I thought it proper to mention that, because of the scandal," said 
the bishop. 

"Oh, it has been terrible in the city," said Mr. Thumble. 
" Never mind, Mr. Thumble," said Mrs. Proudie. " Never mind 
that at present." Then she continued to read the letter. " What's 
this ? Confession ! That must come out, bishop. It will never do 
that you should recommend confession to anybody, under any cir- 

"But, my dear " 

" It must come out, bishop." 

" My lord has not meant auricular confession," suggested Mr. 
Thumble. Then Mrs. Proudie turned round and looked at Mr. 
Thumble, and Mr. Thumble nearly sank amidst the tables and chairs. 
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Proudie," he said. "I didn't mean to 

" The word must come out, bishop," repeated Mrs. Proudie. " There 


should be no stumbling-blocks prepared for feet that are only too 
ready to fall." And the word did come out. 

"Now, Mr. Thumble," said the lady, as she gave the letter to her 
satellite, "the bishop and I wish you to be at Hogglestock early 
to-morrow. You should be there not later than ten, certainly." Then 
she paused until Mr. Thumble had given the required promise. " And 
we request that you will be very firm in the mission which is confided 
to you, a mission which, as of course you see, is of a very delicate and 
important nature. You must be firm." 

"I will endeavour," said Mr. Thumble. 

" The bishop and I both feel that this most unfortunate- man must 
not under any circumstances be allowed to perform the services of the 
Church while this charge is hanging over him, a charge as to the 
truth of which no sane man can entertain a doubt." 

" I'm afraid not, Mrs. Proudie," said Mr. Thumble. 

" The bishop and I therefore are most anxious that you should 
make Mr. Crawley understand at once, at once," and the lady, as she 
spoke, lifted up her left hand with an eloquent violence which had its 
effect upon Mr. Thumble, " that he is inhibited," the bishop shook in 
his shoes, "inhibited from the performance of any of his sacred 
duties." Thereupon, Mr. Thumble promised obedience and went 
his way. 



ATTERS went very badly in- 
deed in the parsonage house at 
Hogglestock. On the Friday 
morning, the morning of the 
day after his committal, Mr. 
Crawley got up very early, long 
before the daylight, and dress- 
ing himself in the dark, groped 
his way downstairs. His wife 
having vainly striven, to per- 
suade him to remain where 
he was, followed him into the 
cold room below with a lighted 
candle. She found him stand- 
ing with his hat on and with 
his old cloak, as though he 
were prepared to go out. 
"Why do you do this?" she 
said. " You will make yourself ill with the cold and the night air ; and 
then you, and I too, will be worse than we now are." 

" We cannot be worse. You cannot be worse, and for me it does 
not signify. Let me pass." 

" I will not let you pass, Josiah. Be a man and bear it. Ask 
God for strength, instead of seeking it in an over-indulgence of your 
own sorrow." 

" Indulgence ! " 

" Yes, love ; indulgence. It is indulgence. You will allow your 
mind to dwell on nothing for a moment but your own wrongs." 

" What else have I that I can think of ? Is not all the world 
against me ? " 

" Am I against you ? " 

" Sometimes I think you are. When you accuse me of self-indul- 
gence you are against me, me, who for myself have desired nothing 


but to be allowed to do my duty, and to have bread enough to keep me 
alive, and clothes enough to make me decent." 

"Is it not self-indulgence, this giving way to grief? Who would 
know so well as you how to teach the lesson of endurance to others ? 
Come, love. Lay down your hat. It cannot be fitting that you should 
go out into the wet and cold of the raw morning." 

For a moment he hesitated, but as she raised her hand to take his 
cloak from him he drew back from her, and would not permit it. "I 
shall find those up whom I want to see," he said. " I must visit my 
flock, and I dare not go through the parish by daylight lest they hoot 
after me as a thief." 

" Not one in Hogglestock would say a word to insult you." 

" Would they not ? The very children in the school whisper at 
me. Let me pass, I say. It has not as yet come to that, that I should 
be stopped in my egress and ingress. They have bailed me; and 
while their bail lasts, I may go where I will." 

" Oh, Josiah, what words to me ! Have I ever stopped your 
liberty ? Would I not give my life to secure it ? " 

" Let me go, then, now. I tell you that I have business in hand." 

" But I will go with you ? I will be ready in an instant." 

" You go ! Why should you go ? Are there not the children for 
you to mind ? " 

" There is only Jane." 

" Stay with her, then. Why should you go about the parish ? " 
She still held him by the cloak, and looked anxiously up into his face. 
" Woman," he said, raising his voice, " what is it that you dread ? I 
command you to tell me what is it that you fear ? " He had how 
taken hold of her by the shoulder, slightly thrusting her from him, so 
that he might see her face by the dim light of the single candle. 
" Speak, I say. What is that you think that I shall do ? " 

"Dearest, I know that you will be better at home, better with 
me, than you can be on such a morning as this out in the cold 
damp air." 

"And is that all?" He looked hard at her, while she returned 
his gaze with beseeching loving eyes. " Is there nothing behind, that 
you will not tell me ? " 

She paused for a moment before she replied. She had never lied 
to him. She could not lie to him. " I wish you knew my heart 
towards you," she said, " with all and everything in it." 

" I know your heart well, but I want to know your mind. Why 
would you persuade me not to go out among my poor ? " 


" Because it will be bad for you to be out alone in the dark lanes, 
in the mud and wet, thinking of your sorrow. You will brood over it 
till you will lose your senses through the intensity of your grief. You 
will stand out in the cold air, forgetful of everything around you, till 
your limbs will be numbed, and your blood chilled, " 

" And then ?" 

"Oh, Josiah, do not hold me like that, and look at me so angrily." 

"And even then I will bear my burden till the Lord in his mercy 
shall see fit to relieve me. Even then I will endure, though a bare 
bodkin or a leaf of hemlock would put an end to it. Let me pass on ; 
you need fear nothing." 

She did let him pass without another word, and he went out of the 
house, shutting, the door after him noiselessly, and closing the wicket- 
gate of the garden. For a while she sat herself down on the nearest 
chair, and tried to make up her mind how she might best treat him in 
his present state of mind. As regarded the present morning her heart 
was at ease. She knew that he would do now nothing of that which 
she had apprehended. She could trust him not to be false in his word 
to her, though she could not before have trusted him not to commit so 
much heavier a sin. If he would really employ himself from morning 
till night among the poor, he would be better so, his trouble would 
be easier of endurance,* than with any other employment which he 
could adopt. What she most dreaded was that he should sit idle over 
the fire and do nothing. When he was so seated she could read his 
mind, as though it was open to her as a book. She had been quite 
right when she had accused him of over-indulgence in his grief. He 
did give way to it till it became a luxury to him, a luxury which she 
would not have had the heart to deny him, had she not felt it to be of 
all luxuries the most pernicious. During these long hours, in which he 
would sit speechless, doing nothing, he was telling himself from minute 
to minute that of all God's creatures he was the most heavily afflicted, 
and was revelling in the sense of the injustice done to him. He was 
recalling all the facts of his life, his education, which had been costly, 
and, as regarded knowledge, successful ; his vocation to the church, 
when in his youth he had determined to devote himself to the service of 
his Saviour, disregarding promotion or the favour of men ; the short, 
sweet days of his early love, in which he had devoted himself again, 
thinking nothing of self, but everything of her; his diligent working, in 
which he had ever done his very utmost for the parish in which he was 
placed, and always his best for the poorest ; the success of other men 
who had been his compeers, and, as he too often told himself, intellec- 


tually his inferiors ; then of his children, who had been carried off from 
his love to the churchyard, over whose graves he himself had stood, 
reading out the pathetic words of the funeral service with unswerving 
voice and a bleeding heart ; and then of his children still living, who 
loved their mother so much better than they loved him. And he would 
recall all the circumstances of his poverty, how he had been driven to 
accept alms, to fly from creditors, to hide himself, to see his chairs and 
tables seized before the eyes of those over whom he had been set as 
their spiritual pastor. And in it all, I think, there was nothing so bitter 
to the man as the derogation from the spiritual grandeur of his position 
as priest among men, which came as one necessary result from his 
poverty. St. Paul could go forth without money in his purse or shoes 
to his feet or two suits to his back, and his poverty never stood in the 
way of his preaching, or hindered the veneration of the faithful. St. 
Paul, indeed, was called upon to bear stripes, was flung into prison, 
encountered terrible dangers. But Mr. Crawley, so he told himself, 
could have encountered all that without flinching. The stripes and scorn 
of the unfaithful would have been nothing to him, if only the faithful 
would have believed in him, poor as he was, as they would have believed 
in him had he been rich ! Even they whom he had most loved treated 
him almost with derision, because he was now different from them. Dean 
Arabin had laughed at him because he had persisted in walking ten 
miles through the mud instead of being conveyed in the dean's carriage ; 
and yet, after that, he had been driven to accept the dean's charity ! 
No one respected him. No one ! His very wife thought that he was 
a lunatic. And now he had been publicly branded as a thief; and in 
all likelihood would end his days in a gaol 1 Such were always his 
thoughts as he sat idle, silent, moody, over the fire ; and his wife well 
knew their currents. It would certainly be better that he should drive 
himself to some employment, if any employment could be found possible 
to him. 

When she had been alone for a few minutes, Mrs. Crawley got up 
from her ehair, and going into the kitchen, lighted the fire there, and 
put the kettle over it, and began to prepare such breakfast for her 
husband as the means in the house afforded. Then she called the 
sleeping servant-girl, who was little more than a child, and went into 
her own girl's room, and then she got into bed with her daughter. 
" I have been up with your papa, dear, and I am cold." 
" Oh, mamma, poor mamma ! Why is papa up so early ? " 
" He has gone out to visit some of the brickmakers before they gc 
to their work. It is better for him to be employed." 


"But, mamma, it is pitch dark." 

" Yes, dear, it is still dark. Sleep again for a while, and I will sleep 
too. I think Grace will be here to-night, and then there will be no 
room for me here." 

Mr. Crawley went forth and made his way with rapid steps to a 
portion of his parish nearly two miles distant from his house, through 
which was carried a canal, affording water communication in some 
intricate way both to London and Bristol. And on the brink of this 
canal there had sprung up a colony of brickmakers, the nature of the 
earth in those parts combining with the canal to make brickmaking a 
suitable trade. The workmen there assembled were not, for the most 
part, native-born Hogglestockians, or folk descended from Hoggle- 
stockian parents. They had come thither from unknown regions, as 
labourers of that class do come when they are needed. Some young 
men from that and neighbouring parishes had joined themselves to the 
colony, allured by wages, and disregarding the menaces of the neigh- 
bouring fanners ; but they were all in appearance and manners nearer 
akin to the race of navvies than to ordinary rural labourers. They had 
a bad name in the country ; but it may be that their name was worse 
than their deserts. The farmers hated them, and consequently they 
hated the farmers. They had a beershop, and a grocer's shop, and a 
huxter's shop for their own accommodation, and were consequently 
vilified by the small old-established tradesmen around them. They 
got drunk occasionally, but I doubt whether they drank more than did 
the farmers themselves on market-day. They fought among themselves 
sometimes, but they forgave each other freely, and seemed to have no 
objection to black eyes. I fear that they were not always good to their 
wives, nor were their wives always good to them ; but it should be 
remembered that among the poor, especially when they live in clusters, 
such misfortunes cannot be hidden as they may be amidst the decent 
belongings of more wealthy people. That they worked very hard was 
certain ; and it was certain also that very few of their number ever came 
upon the poor rates. What became of the old brickmakers no one knew. 
Who ever sees a worn-out aged nawie ? 

Mr. Crawley, ever since his first coming into Hogglestock, had been 
very busy among these brickmakers, and by no means without success. 
Indeed the farmers had quarrelled with him because the brickmakers 
had so crowded the narrow parish church, as to leave but scant room 
for decent people. " Doo they folk pay tithes ? That's what I want 
'un to tell me?" argued one farmer, not altogether unnaturally, 
believing as he did that Mr. Crawley was paid by tithes out of his own 


pocket. But Mr. Crawley had done his best to make the brickmakers 
welcome at the church, scandalizing the farmers by causing them to sit 
or stand in any portion of the church which was hitherto unappropriated. 
He had been constant in his personal visits to them, and had felt him- 
self to be more a St. Paul with them than with any other of his neigh- 
bours around him. 

It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding evening had 
given way to frost, and the air, though sharp, was dry. The ground 
under the feet was crisp, having felt the wind and frost, and was no 
longer clogged with mud. In his present state of mind the walk was 
good for our poor pastor, and exhilarated him ; but still, as he went, he 
thought always of his injuries. His own wife believed that he was 
about to commit suicide, and for so believing he was very angry with 
her ; and yet, as he well knew, the idea of making away with himself 
had flitted through his own mind a dozen times. Not from his own 
wife could he get real sympathy. He would see what he could do with 
a certain brickmaker of his acquaintance. 

" Are you here, Dan ?" he said, knocking at the door of a cottage 
which stood alone, close to the towing-path of the canal, and close also 
to a forlorn corner of the muddy, watery, ugly, disordered brickfield. 
It was now just past six o'clock, and the men would be rising, as in 
midwinter they commenced their work at seven. The cottage was an 
unalluring, straight brick-built tenement, seeming as though intended 
to be one of a row which had never progressed beyond Number One. 
A voice answered from the interior, inquiring who was the visitor, to 
which Mr. Crawley replied by giving his name. Then the key was 
turned in the lock, and Dan Morris, the brickmaker, appeared with a 
candle in his hand. He had been engaged in lighting the fire, with 
a view to his own breakfast. ''Where is your wife, Dan?" asked 
Mr. Crawley. The man answered by pointing with a short poker, 
which he held in his hand, to the bed, which was half screened from 
the room by a ragged curtain, which hung from the ceiling half-way 
down to the floor. " And are the Darvels here ?" asked Mr. Crawley. 
Then Morris, again using the poker, pointed upwards, showing that the 
Darvels were still in their own allotted abode upstairs. 

" You're early out, Muster Crawley," said Morris, and then he went 
oh with his fire. " Drat the sticks, if they bean't as wet as the old 'un 
hisself. Get up, old woman, and do you do it, for I can't. They 
wun't kindle for me, nohow." But the old woman, having well 
noted the presence of Mr. Crawley, thought it better to remain where 
she was. 


Mr. Crawley sat himself down by the obstinate fire, and began to 
arrange the sticks. " Dan, Dan," said a voice from the bed, " sure you 
wouldn't let his reverence trouble himself with the fire." 

" How be I to keep him from it, if he chooses ? I didn't ax him." 
Then Morris stood by and watched, and after a while Mr. Crawley suc- 
ceeded in his attempt. 

" How could it burn when you had not given the small spark a 
current of air to help it ? " said Mr. Crawley. 

" In course not," said the woman, " but he be such a stupid." 

The husband said no word in acknowledgment of this compliment, 
nor did he thank Mr. Crawley for what he had done, nor appear as 
though he intended to take any notice of him. He was going on with 
his work when Mr. Crawley again interrupted him. 

" How did you get back from Silverbridge yesterday, Dan ?" 

" Footed it, all the blessed way." 

"It's only eight miles." 

" And I footed it there, and that's sixteen. And I paid one-and- 
sixpence for beer and grub ; s'help me, I did." 

" Dan !" said the voice from the bed, rebuking him for the 'impro- 
priety of his language. 

" Well ; I beg pardon, but I did. And they guv' me two bob ; 
just two plain shillings, by " 

" Dan!" 

" And I'd 've arned three-and-six here at brickmaking easy; that's 
what I would. How's a poor man to live that way ? They'll not cotch 
me at Barchester 'Sizes at that price ; they may be sure of that. Look 
there, that's what I've got for my day." And he put his hand into 
his breeches' -pocket and fetched out a sixpence. " How's a man to fill 
his belly out of that ? Damnation ! " 


" Well, what did I say ? Hold your jaw, will you, and not be 
halloaing at me that way ? I know what I'm a saying of, and what I'm 
a doing of." 

" I wish they'd given you something more with all my heart," said 

" We knows that," said the woman from the bed. " We is sure of 
that, your reverence." 

" Sixpence !" said the man, scornfully. " If they'd have guv me 
nothing at all but the run of my teeth at the public-house, I'd 've 
taken it better. But sixpence ! " 

Then there was a pause. " And what have they given to me ? " said 


Mr. Crawley, when the man's ill-huniour about his sixpence had so far 
subsided as to allow of his busying himself again about the premises. 

" Yes, indeed ; yes, indeed," said the woman. " Yes, yes, we feel 
that; we do indeed, Mr. Crawley." 

" I tell you what, sir ; for another sixpence I'd 've sworn you'd never 
guv' me the paper at all ; and so I will now, if it bean't too late ; six- 
pence or no sixpence. What do I care ? d them." 


" And why shouldn't I ? They hain't got brains enough among 
them to winny the truth from the lies, not among the lot of 'em. 
I'll swear afore the judge that you didn't give it me at all, if that'll do 
any good." 

" Man, do you think I would have you perjure yourself, even if that 
would do me a service ? And do you think that any man was ever 
served by a lie?" 

" Faix, among them chaps it don't do to tell them too much of the 
truth. Look at that ! " And he brought out the sixpence again from 
his breeches' -pocket. " And look at your reverence. Only that they've 
let you out for a while, they've been nigh as hard on you as though 
you were one of us." 

"If they think that I stole it, they have been right," said Mr. 

" It's been along of that chap, Soames," said the woman. " The 
lord would 've paid the money out of his own pocket and never said 
not a word." 

" If they think that I've been a thief, they've done right," repeated 
Mr. Crawley. " But how can they think so ? How can they think 
so ? Have I lived like a thief among them ? " 

" For the matter o' that, if a man ain't paid for his work by them 
as is his employers, he must pay hisself. Them's my notions. Look 
at that!" -Whereupon he again pulled out the sixpence, and held 
it forth in the palm of his hand. 

" You believe, then," said Mr. Crawley, speaking very slowly, 
" that I did steal the money. Speak out, Dan ; I shall not be angry. 
As you go you are honest men, and I want to know what such of you 
think about it." 

" He don't think nothing of the kind," said the woman, almost 
getting out of bed in her energy. " If he'd athought the like o' that in 
his head, I'd read 'un such a lesson he'd never think again the longest 
day he had to live." 

" Speak out, Dan," said the clergyman, not attending to the 



woman. " You can understand that no good can come of a lie." 
Dan Morris scratched his head. " Speak out, man, when I tell you," 
said Crawley. 

" Drat it all," said Dan, " where's the use of so much jaw 
about it ? " 

" Say you know his reverence is as innocent as the babe as isn't 
born," said the woman. 

' No ; I won't, say nothing of the kind," said Dan. 

" Speak out the truth," said Crawley. 

" They do say, among 'em," said Dan, " that you picked it upj and 
then got a woolgathering in your head till you didn't rightly know 
where it come from." Then he paused. " And after a bit you guv' it 
me to get the money. Didn't you, now ? " 

" I did." 

" And they do say if a poor man had done it, it'd been stealing, for 

" And I'm a poor man, the poorest in all Hogglestock ; and, 
therefore, of course, it is stealing. Of course I am a thief. Yes ; of 
course I am a thief. When did not the world believe the worst of the 
poor?" Having so spoken, Mr. Crawley rose from his chair and 
hurried out of the cottage, waiting no further reply from Dan Moms or 
his wife. And as he made his way slowly home, not going there by 
the direct road, but by a long circuit, he told himself that there could 
be no sympathy for him anywhere. Even Dan Morris, the brickmaker, 
thought that he was a thief. 

" And am I a thief? " he said to himself, standing in the middle of 
the road, with his hands up to his forehead. 


IT was nearly nine before Mr. Crawley got back to his house, and 
found his wife and daughter waiting breakfast for him. " I should not 
wonder if Grace were over here to-day," said Mrs. Crawley. " She'd 
better remain where she is," said he. After this the meal passed 
almost without a word. When it was over, Jane, at a sign from her 
mother, went up to her father and asked him whether she should read 


with him. "Not now," he said, "not just now. I must rest my 
brain before it will be fit for any work." Then he got into the chair 
over the fire, and his wife began to fear that he would remain there all 
the day. 

But the morning was not far advanced, when there came a visitor 
who disturbed him, and by disturbing him did him real service. Just 
at ten there arrived at the little gate before the house a man on a pony, 
whom Jane espied, standing there by the pony's head and looking 
about for some one to relieve him from the charge of his steed. This 
was Mi*. Thumble, who had ridden over to Hogglestock on a poor 
spavined brute belonging to the bishop's stable, and which had once 
been the bishop's cob. Now it was the vehicle by which Mrs. IVoudie's 
episcopal messages were sent backwards and forwards through a twelve- 
miles ride round Barchester ; and so many were the lady's require- 
ments, that the poor animal by no means eat the hay of idleness. 
Mr. Thumble had suggested to Mrs. Proudie, after their interview with 
the bishop and the giving up of the letter to the clerical messenger's 
charge, that before hiring a gig from the Dragon of Wantley, he should 
be glad to know, looking as he always did to " Mary Anne and the 
children," whence the price of the gig was to be returned to him. 
Mrs. Proudie had frowned at him, not with all the austerity of 
frowning which she could use when really angered, but simply with a 
frown which gave her some little time for thought, and would enable 
her to continue the rebuke if, after thinking, she should find that 
rebuke was needed. But mature consideration showed her that Mr. 
Thumble' s caution was not without reason. Were the bishop energetic, 
or even the bishop's managing chaplain as energetic as he should be, 
Mr. Crawley might, as Mrs. Proudie felt assured, be made in some way 
to pay for a conveyance for Mr. Thumble. But the energy was lacking, 
and the price of the gig, if the gig were ordered, would certainly fall 
ultimately upon the bishop's shoulders. This was very sad. Mrs. 
Proudie had often grieved over the necessary expenditure of episcopal 
surveillance, and had been heard to declare her opinion that a liberal 
allowance for secret service should be made in every diocese. What 
better could the Ecclesiastical Commissioners do with all those rich 
revenues which they had stolen from the bishops ? But there was no 
such liberal allowance at present, and, therefore, Mrs. Proudie, after 
having frowned at Mr. Thumble for some seconds, desired him to take 
the grey cob. Now, Mr. Thumble had ridden the grey cob before, and 
would much have preferred a gig. But even the grey cob was better 
than a gig at his own cost. 


"Mamma, there's a man at the gate wanting to come in," said 
Jane. " I think he's a clergyman." 

Mr. Crawley immediately raised his head, though he did not at 
once leave his chair. Mrs. Crawley went to the window, and recog- 
nized the reverend visitor. " My dear, it is that Mr. Thumble, who is 
so much with the bishop." 

" What does Mr. Thumble want with me ? " 

"Nay, my dear; he will tell you that himself." But Mrs. Crawley, 
ihough she answered him with a voice intended to be cheerful, greatly 
feared the coming of this messenger from the palace. She perceived at 
once that the bishop was about to interfere with her husband in conse- ' 
quence of that which the magistrates had done yesterday. 

" Mamma, he doesn't know what to do with -his pony," said Jane. 

"Tell him to tie it to the rail," said Mr. Crawley. "If he has 
expected to find menials here, as he has them at the palace, he will be 
wrong. If he wants to come in here, let him tie the beast to the rail." 
So Jane went out and sent a message to Mr. Thumble by the girl, and 
Mr. Thumble did tie the pony to the rail, and followed the girl into the 
house. Jane in the meantime had retired out by the back door to the 
school, but Mrs. Crawley kept her ground. She kept her ground 
although she almost believed that her husband would prefer to have 
the field to himself. As Mr. Thumble did not at once enter the room, 
Mr. Crawley stalked to the door, and stood with it open in his hand. 
Though he knew Mr. Thumble's person, he was not acquainted with 
him, and therefore he simply bowed to the visitor, bowing more than 
once or twice with a cold courtesy, which did not put Mr. Thumble 
altogether at his ease. " My name is Mr. Thumble," said the visitor, 
" The Keverend Caleb Thumble," and he held the bishop's letter 
in his hand. Mr. Crawley seemed to take no notice of the letter, but 
motioned Mr. Thumble with his hand into the room. 

"I suppose you have come over from Barchester this morning?" 
said Mrs. Crawley. 

" Yes, madam, from the palace." Mr. Thumble, though a humble 
man in positions in which he felt that humility would become him, a 
humble man to his betters, as he himself would have expressed it, 
had still about him something of that pride which naturally belonged 
to those clergymen who were closely attached to the palace at Bar- 
chester. Had he been sent on a message to Plumstead, could any 
such message from Barchester palace have been possible, he would 
have been properly humble in his demeanour to the archdeacon, or to 
Mrs. Grantly had he been admitted to the august presence of that 


lady ; but he was aware that humility would not become him on his 
present mission ; he had been expressly ordered to be firm by Mrs. 
Proudie, and firm he meant to be ; and therefore, in communicating to 
Mrs. Crawley the fact that he had come from the palace, he did load 
the tone of his voice with something of dignity which Mr. Crawley 
might perhaps be excused for regarding as arrogance. 

" And what does the ' palace ' want with me ? " said Mr. Crawley. 
Mrs. Crawley knew at once that there was to be a battle. Nay, the 
battle had begun. Nor was she altogether sorry ; for though she could 
not trust her husband to sit alone all day in his arm-chair over the 
fire, she could trust him to carry on a disputation with any other 
clergyman on any subject whatever. " What does the palace want 
with me?" And as Mr. Crawley asked the question he stood erect, 
and looked Mr. Thumble Ml in the face. Mr. Thumble called to mind 
the fact, that Mr. Crawley was a very poor man indeed, so poor that 
he owed money all round the country to butchers and bakers, and the 
other fact, that he, Mr. Thumble himself, did not owe any money to 
any one, his wife luckily having a little income of her own ; and, 
strengthened by these remembrances, he endeavoured to bear Mr. 
Crawley's attack with gallantry. 

" Of course, Mr. Crawley, you are aware that this unfortunate affair 
at Silverbridge " 

" I am not prepared, sir, to discuss the unfortunate affair at Silver- 
bridge with a stranger. If you are the bearer of any message to me 
from the Bishop of Barchester, perhaps you will deliver it." 

" I have brought a letter," said Mr. Thumble. Then Mr. Crawley 
stretched out his hand without a word, and taking the letter with him 
to the window, read it very slowly. When he had made himself 
master of its contents, he refolded the letter, placed it again in the 
envelope, and returned to the spot where Mr. Thumble was standing. 
"I will answer the bishop's letter," he said; "I will answer it of 
course, as it is fitting that I should do. Shall I ask you to wait for my 
reply, or shall I send it by course of post ? " 

" I think, Mr. Crawley, as the bishop wishes me to undertake the 

" You will not undertake the duty, Mr. Thumble. You need not 
trouble yourself, for I shall not surrender my pulpit to you." 

" But the bishop - 

" I care nothing for the bishop in this matter." So much he spoke 
in anger, and then he corrected himself. "I crave the bishop's pardon, 
and yours as his messenger, if in the heat occasioned by my strong 


feelings I have said aught which may savour of irreverence towards his 
lordship's office. I respect his lordship's high position as bishop of 
this diocese, and I bow to his commands in all things lawful. But I 
must not bow to him in things unlawful, nor must I abandon my duty 
before God at his bidding, unless his bidding be given in accordance 
with the canons of the Church and the laws of the land. It will be my 
duty, on the coming Sunday, to lead the prayers of my people in the 
church of my parish, and to preach to them from my pulpit ; and that 
duty, with God's assistance, I will perform. Nor will I allow any 
clergyman to interfere with me in the performance of those sacred 
offices, no, not though the bishop himself should be present with the 
object of enforcing his illegal command." Mr. Crawley spoke these 
words without hesitation, even with eloquence, standing upright, and 
with something of a noble anger gleaming over his poor wan face ; and, 
I think, that while speaking them, he was happier than he had been 
for many a long day. 

Mr. Thumble listened to him patiently, standing with one foot a 
little in advance of the other, with one hand folded over the other, with 
his head rather on one side, and with his eyes fixed on the corner 
where the wall and ceiling joined each other. He had been told to be 
firm, and he was considering how he might best display firmness. He 
thought that he remembered some story of two parsons fighting for one 
pulpit, and he thought also that he should not himself like to incur the 
scandal of such a proceeding in the diocese. As to the law in the 
matter he knew nothing himself ; but he presumed that a bishop would 
probably know the law better than a perpetual curate. That Mrs. Proudie 
was intemperate and imperious, he was aware. Had the message come 
from her alone, he might have felt that even for her sake he had better 
give way. But as the despotic arrogance of the lady had been in this 
case backed by the timid presence and hesitating words of her lord, 
Mr. Thumble thought that he must have the law on his side. " I think 
you will find, Mr. Crawley," said he, " that the bishop's inhibition is 
strictly legal." He had picked up the powerful word from Mrs. Proudie 
and flattered himself that it might be of use to him in carrying his 

" It is illegal," said Mr. Crawley, speaking somewhat louder than 
before, " and will be absolutely futile. As you pleaded to me that you 
yourself and your own personal convenience were concerned in this 
matter, I have made known my intentions to you, which otherwise I 
should have made known only to the bishop. If you please, we will 
discuss the subject no further." 


" Am I to understand, Mr. Crawley, that you refuse to obey the 
bishop ?" 

" The bishop has written to me, sir ; and I will make known my 
intention to the bishop by a written answer. As you have been the 
bearer of the bishop's letter to me, I am bound to ask you whether I 
shall be indebted to you for carrying back my reply, or whether I shall 
send it by course of post ? " Mr. Thumble considered for a moment, 
and then made up his mind that he had better wait, and carry back the 
epistle. This was Friday, and the letter could not be delivered by post 
till the Saturday morning. Mrs. Proudie might be angry with him if 
he should be the cause of loss of time. He did not, however, at all 
like waiting, having perceived that Mr. Crawley, though with language 
courteously worded, had spoken of him as a mere messenger. 

" I think," he said, " that I may, perhaps, best further the object 
which we must all have in view, that namely of providing properly for 
the Sunday services of the church of Hogglestock, by taking your reply 
personally to the bishop." 

" That provision is my care and need trouble no one else," said 
Mr. Crawley, in a loud voice. Then, before seating himself at his old 
desk, he stood awhile, pondering, with his back turned to his visitor. 
" I have to ask your pardon, sir," said he, looking round for a moment, 
" because, by reason of the extreme poverty of this house, my wife is 
unable to offer to you that hospitality which is especially due from one 
clergyman to another." 

" Oh, don't mention it," said Mr. Thumble. 

" If you will allow me, sir, I would prefer that it should be men- 
tioned." Then he seated himself at his desk, and commenced his letter. 

Mr. Thumble felt himself to be awkwardly placed. Had there been 
no third person in the room he could have sat down in Mr. Crawley 's 
arm-chair, and waited patiently till the letter should be finished. But 
Mrs. Crawley was there, and of course he was bound to speak to her. In 
what strain could he do so ? Even he, little as he was given to indulge 
in sentiment, had been touched by the man's appeal to his own poverty, 
and he felt, moreover, that Mrs. Crawley must have been deeply moved 
by her husband's position with reference to the bishop's order. It was 
quite out of the question that he should speak of that, as Mr. Crawley 
would, he was well aware, immediately turn upon him. At last he 
thought of a subject, and spoke with a voice intended to be pleasant. 
" That was the school-house I passed, probably, just as I came here?" 
Mrs. Crawley told him that it was the school-house. " Ah, yes, I 
thought so. Have you a certified teacher here?" Mrs. Crawley 


explained that no Government aid had ever reached Hogglestock. 
Besides themselves, they had only a young woman whom they them- 
selves had instructed. " Ah, that is a pity," said Mr. Thumble. 

" I, I am the certified teacher," said Mr. Crawley, turning round 
upon him from his chair. 

" Oh, ah, yes," said Mr. Thumble ; and after that Mr. Thumble 
asked no more questions about the Hogglestock school. Soon after- 
wards Mrs. Crawley left the room, seeing the difficulty under which 
Mr. Thumble was labouring, and feeling sure that her presence would 
not now be necessary. Mr. Crawley 's letter was written quickly, though 
every now and then he would sit for a moment with his pen poised in 
the air, searching his memory for a word. But the words came to him 
easily, and before an hour was over he had handed his letter to 
Mr. Thumble. The letter was as follows : 

" The Parsonage, Hogglestock, Dec. 186. 

" I HAVE received the letter of yesterday's date which your 
lordship has done me the honour of sending to me by the hands of the 
Reverend Mr. Thumble, and I avail myself of that gentleman's kindness 
to return to you an answeT by the same means, moved thus to use his 
patience chiefly by the consideration that in this way my reply to your 
lordship's injunctions may be in your hands with less delay than would 
attend the regular course of the mail-post. 

" It is with deep regret that I feel myself constrained to inform your 
lordship that I cannot obey the command which you have laid upon 
me with reference to the services of my church in this parish. I cannot 
permit Mr. Thumble, or any other delegate from your lordship, to usurp 
my place in my pulpit. I would not have you to think, if I can possibly 
dispel such thoughts from your mind, that I disregard your high office, 
or that I am deficient in that respectful obedience to the bishop set 
over me, which is due to the authority of the Crown as the head of the 
church in these realms ; but in this, as in all questions of obedience, he 
who is required to obey must examine the extent of the authority 
exercised by him who demands obedience. Your lordship might 
possibly call upon me, using your voice as bishop of the diocese, to 
abandon altogether the freehold rights which are now mine in this 
perpetual curacy. The judge of assize, before whom I shall soon stand 
for my trial, might command me to retire to prison without a verdict 
given by the jury. The magistrates who committed me so lately as 
yesterday, upon whose decision in that respect your lordship has taken 


action against me so quickly, might have equally strained their 
authority. But in no case, in this land, is he that is subject bound to 
obey, further than where the law gives authority and exacts obedience. 
It is not in the power of the Crown itself to inhibit me from the 
performance of my ordinary duties in this parish by any such missive 
as that sent to me by your lordship. If your lordship think it right 
to stop my mouth as a clergyman in your diocese, you must proceed to 
do so in an ecclesiastical court in accordance with the laws, and will 
succeed in your object, or fail, in accordance with the evidences as to 
ministerial fitness or unfitness, which may be produced respecting me 
before the proper tribunal. 

" I will allow that much attention is due from a clergyman to 
pastoral advice given to him by his bishop. On that head I must first 
express to your lordship my full understanding that your letter has not 
been intended to convey advice, but an order ; an inhibition, as your 
messenger, the Reverend Mr. Thumble, has expressed it. There might 
be a case certainly in which I should submit myself to counsel, though 
I should resist command. No counsel, however, has been given, 
except indeed that I should receive your messenger in a proper spirit, 
which I hope I have done. No other advice has been given me, and 
therefore there is now no such case as that I have imagined. But in this 
matter, my lord, I could not have accepted advice from living man, no, 
not though the hands of the apostles themselves had made him bishop 
who tendered it to me, and had set him over me for my guidance. I 
am in a terrible straight. Trouble, and sorrow, and danger are upon 
me and mine. It may well be, as your lordship says, that the bitter 
waters of the present hour may pass over my head and destroy me. I 
thank your lordship for telling me whither I am to look for assistance. 
Truly I know not whether there is any to be found for me on earth. 
But the deeper my troubles, the greater my sorrow, the more pressing 
my danger, the stronger is my need that I should carry myself in these 
days with that outward respect of self which will teach those around me 
to know that, let who will condemn me, I have not condemned myself. 
Were I to abandon my pulpit, unless forced to do so by legal means, I 
should in doing so be putting a plea of guilty against myself upon the 
record. This, my lord, I will not do. 

" I have the honour to be, my lord, 

" Your lordship's most obedient servant, 


When he had finished writing his letter he read it over slowly, and 


then handed it to Mr. Thumble. The act of writing, and the current of 
the thoughts through his brain, and the feeling that in every word 
written he was getting the better of the bishop, all this joined to a 
certain manly delight in warfare against authority, lighted up the man's 
face and gave to his eyes an expression which had been long wanting to 
them. His wife at that moment came into the room and he looked at 
her with an air of triumph as he handed the letter to Mr. Thumble. 
" If you will give that to his lordship with an assurance of my duty to 
his lordship in all things proper, I will thank you kindly, craving your 
pardon for the great delay to which you have been subjected." 

" As to the delay, that is nothing," said Mr. Thumble. 

" It has been much ; but you as a clergyman will feel that it has 
been incumbent on me to speak my mind fully." 

" Oh, yes ; of course." Mr. Crawley was standing up, as also was 
Mrs. Crawley. It was evident to Mr. Thumble that they both expected 
that he should go. But he had been specially enjoined to be firm, and 
he doubted whether hitherto he had been firm enough. As far as this 
morning's work had as yet gone, it seemed to him that Mr. Crawley 
had had the play all to himself, and that he, Mr. Thumble, had not had 
his innings. He, from the palace, had been, as it were, cowed by this 
man, who had been forced to plead his own poverty. It was certainly 
incumbent upon him, before he went, to speak up, not only for the 
bishop, but for himself also. " Mr. Crawley," he said, " hitherto I 
have listened to you patiently." 

" Nay," said Mr. Crawley, smiling, " you have indeed been patient, 
and I thank you ; but my words have been written, not spoken." 

" You have told me that you intend to disobey the bishop's 

" I have told the bishop so certainly." 

" May I ask you now to listen to me for a few minutes ? " 

Mr. Crawley, still smiling, still having in his eyes the unwonted 
triumph which had lighted them up, paused a moment, and then 
answered him. " Reverend sir, you must excuse me if I say no, not 
on this subject." 

" You will not let me speak ? " 

"No ; not on this matter, which is very private to me. What should 
you think if I went into your house and inquired of you as to those 
things which were particularly near to you ? " 

" But the bishop sent me." 

" Though ten bishops had sent me, a council of archbishops if you 
will ! " Mr. Thumble started back, appalled at the energy of the words 

V. L 


used to him. " Shall a man have nothing of his own ; no sorrow in 
his heart, no care in his family, no thought in his breast so private and 
special to him, but that, if he happen to be a clergyman, the bishop 
may touch it with his thumb ? " 

" I am not the bishop's thumb," said Mr. Thumble, drawing him- 
self up. 

" I intended not to hint anything personally objectionable to your- 
self. I will regard you as one of the angels of the church." Mr. Thurnble, 
when he heard this, began to be sure that Mr. Crawley was mad ; he 
knew of no angels that could ride about the Barsetshire lanes on grey 
ponies. "And as such I will respect you; but I cannot discuss with 
you the matter of the bishop's message." 

" Oh, very well. I will tell his lordship." 

" I will pray you to do so." 

" And his lordship, should he so decide, will arm me with such 
power on my next coming as will enable me to carry out his lordship's 

" His lordship will abide by the law, as will you also." In speaking 
these last words he stood with the door in his hand, and Mr. Thumble, 
not knowing how to increase or even to maintain his firmness, thought 
it best to pass out, and mount his grey pony and ride away. 

" The poor man thought that you were laughing at him when you 
called him an angel of the church," said Mrs. Crawley, coming up to 
him and smiling on him. 

" Had I told him he was simply a messenger, he would have taken 
it worse ; poor fool ! When they have rid themselves of me they may 
put him here, in my church ; but not yet, not yet. Where is Jane ? 
Tell her that I am ready to commence the Seven against Thebes with 
her." Then Jane was immediately sent for out of the school, and the 
Seven against Thebes was commenced with great energy. Often during 
the next hour and a half Mrs. Crawley from the kitchen would hear him 
reading out, or rather saying by rote, with sonorous, rolling voice, great 
passages from some chorus, and she was very thankful to the bishop 
who had sent over to them a message and a messenger which had been 
so salutary in their effect upon her husband. " In truth an angel of 
the church," she said to herself as she chopped up the onions for the 
mutton-broth; and ever afterwards she regarded Mr. Thumble as an 
" angel.".- 


GRACE CRAWLEY passed through Silverbridge on her way to Allington 
on the Monday, and on the Tuesday morning Major Grantly received a 
very short note from Miss Prettyman, telling him that she had done so. 
' ' Dear Sir, I think you will be glad to learn that our friend Miss 
Crawley went from us yesterday on a visit to her friend, Miss Dale, at 
Allington. Yours truly, Annabella Prettyman." The note said no 
more than that. Major Grantly was glad to get it, obtaining from it 
that satisfaction which a man always feels when he is presumed to be 
concerned in the affairs of the lady with whom he is in love. And he 
regarded Miss Prettyman with favourable eyes, as a discreet and 
friendly woman. Nevertheless, he was not altogether happy. The very 
fact that Miss Prettyman should write to him on such a subject made 
him feel that he was bound to Grace Crawley. He knew enough of 1 
himself to be sure that he could not give her up without making himself 
miserable. And yet, as regarded her father, things were going from bad 
to worse. Everybody now said that the evidence was so strong against 
Mr. Crawley as to leave hardly a doubt of his guilt. Even the ladies in 
Silverbridge were beginning to give up his cause, acknowledging that 
the money could not have come rightfully into his hands, and excusing 
him on the plea of partial insanity. " He has picked it up and put it 
by for months, and then thought that it was his own." The ladies of 
Silverbridge could find nothing better to say for him than that ; and 
when young Mr. Walker remarked that such little mistakes were the ' 
customary causes of men being taken to prison, the ladies of Silver- 
bridge did not know how to answer him. It had come to be their 
opinion that Mr. Crawley was affected with a partial lunacy, which 
ought to be forgiven in one to whom the world had been so cruel ; and 
when young Mr. Walker endeavoured to explain to them that a man 
must be sane altogether or mad altogether, and that Mr. Crawley must, 
if sane, be locked up as a thief, and if mad, locked up as a madman, 
they sighed, and were convinced that until the world should have been 
improved by a new infusion of romance, and a stronger feeling of poetic 
justice, Mr. John Walker was right. 


And the result of this general opinion made its way out to Major 
Grantly, and made its way, also, to the archdeacon at Plumstead. As 
to the major, in giving him his due, it must be explained that the more 
certain he became of the father's guilt, the more certain also he became 
of the daughter's merits. It was very hard. The whole thing was 
cruelly hard. It was cruelly hard upon him that he should be brought 
into this trouble, and be forced to take upon himself the armour of a 
knight- errant for the redress of the wrong on the part of the young lady. 
But when alone in his house, or with his child, he declared to himself 
that he would do so. It might well be that he could not live in Barset- 
shire after he had married Mr. Crawley's daughter. He had inherited 
from his father enough of that longing for ascendancy among those 
around him to make him feel that in such circumstances he would be 
wretched. But he would be made more wretched by the self-knowledge 
that he had behaved badly to the girl he loved ; and the world beyond 
Barsetshire was open to him. He would take her with him to Canada, 
to New Zealand, or to some other far-away country, and there begin his 
life again. Should his father choose to punish him for so doing by 
disinheriting him, they would be poor enough ; but, in his present frame 
of mind, the major was able to regard such poverty as honourable and 
not altogether disagreeable. 

He had been out shooting all day at Chaldicotes, with Dr. Thome 
and a party who were staying in the house there, and had been talking 
about Mr. Crawley, first with one man and then with another. Lord 
Lufton had been there, and young Gresham from Greshamsbury, and 
Mr. Kobarts the clergyman, and news had come among them of the 
attempt made by the bishop to stop Mr. Crawley from preaching. 
Mr. Kobarts had been of opinion that Mr. Crawley should have given 
way ; and Lord Lufton, who shared his mother's intense dislike of 
everything that came from the palace, had sworn that he was right to 
resist. The sympathy of the whole party had been with Mr. Crawley ; 
but they had all agreed that he had stolen the money. 

" I fear he'll have to give way to the bishop at last," Lord Lufton 
had said. 

" And what on earth will become of his children ?" said the doctor. 
" Think of the fate of that pretty girl ; for she is a very pretty girl. It will 
be ruin to her. No man will allow himself to fall in love with her when her 
father shall have been found guilty of stealing a cheque for twenty pounds." 

" We must do something for the whole family," said the lord. " I 
say, Thorne, you haven't half the game here that there used to be in 
poor old Sowerby's time." 


" Haven't I ? " said the doctor. " You see Sowerby had been at it 
all his days, and never did anything else. I only began late in life." 

The major had intended to stay and dine at Chaldicotes, but when 
he heard what was said about Grace, his heart became sad, and he 
made some excuse as to his child, and returned home. Dr. Thorne 
had declared that no man could allow himself to fall in love with her. 
But what if a man had fallen in love with her beforehand ? What if a 
man had not only fallen in love, but spoken of his love ? Had he been 
alone with the doctor, he would, I think, have told him the whole of 
his trouble ; for in all the county there was no man whom he would 
sooner have trusted with his secret. This Dr. Thorne was known 
far and wide for his soft heart, his open hand, and his well-sustained 
indifference to the world's opinions on most of those social matters 
with which the world meddles ; and therefore the words which "he had 
spoken had more weight with Major Grantly than they would have 
had from other lips. As he drove home he almost made up his mind 
that he would consult Dr. Thorne upon the matter. There were many 
younger men with whom he was very intimate, Frank Gresham, for 
instance, and Lord Lufton himself; but this was an affair which he 
hardly knew how to discuss with a young man. To Dr. Thorne he 
thought that he could bring himself to tell the whole story. 

In the evening there came to him a messenger from Plumstead, with 
a letter from his father and some present for the child. He knew at 
once that the present had been thus sent as an excuse for the letter. 
His father might have written by the post, of course ; but that would 
have given to his letter a certain air and tone which he had not wished 
it to bear. After some message from the major's mother, and some 
allusion to Edith, the archdeacon struck off upon the matter that was 
near his heart. 

" I fear it is all up with that unfortunate man at Hogglestock," he 
said. " From what I hear of the evidence which came out before the 
magistrates, there can, I think, be no doubt as to his guilt. Have you 
heard that the bishop sent over on the following day to stop him from 
preaching ? He did so, and sent again on the Sunday. But Crawley 
would not give way, and so far I respect the man ; for, as a matter of 
course, whatever the bishop did, or attempted to do, he would do with 
an extreme of bad taste, probably with gross ignorance as to his own 
duty and as to the duty of the man under him. I am told that on the 
first day Crawley turned out of his house the messenger sent to him, 
some stray clergyman whom Mrs. Proudie keeps about the house ; and 
that on the Sunday the stairs to the reading-desk and pulpit wero 


occupied by a lot of brickmakers, among whom the parson from Bar- 
chester did not venture to attempt to make his way, although he was 
fortified by the presence of one of the cathedral vergers and by one of 
the palace footmen. I can hardly believe about the verger and the 
footman. As for the rest, I have no doubt it is all true. I pity 
Crawley from my heart. Poor, unfortunate man ! The general opinion 
seems to be that he is not in truth responsible for what he has done. 
As for his victory over the bishop, nothing on earth could be better. 

" Your mother particularly wishes you to come over to us before 
the end of the week, and to bring Edith. Your grandfather will be here, 
and he is becoming so infirm that he will never come to us for another 
Christmas. Of course you will stay over the new year." 

Though the letter was full of Mr. Crawley and his affairs there was 
not a word in it about Grace. This, however, was quite natural. Major 
Grantly perfectly well understood his father's anxiety to carry his point 
without seeming to allude to the disagreeable subject. " My father is 
very clever," he said to himself, " very clever. But he isn't so clever 
but one can see how clever he is." 

On the next day he went into Silverbridge, intending to call on 
Miss Prettyman. He had not quite made up his mind what he would 
say to Miss Prettyman ; nor was he called upon to do so, as he never 
got as far as that lady's house. While walking up the High Street he 
saw Mrs. Thorne in her carriage, and, as a matter of course, he stopped 
to speak to her. He knew Mrs. Thorne quite as intimately as he did 
her husband, and liked her quite as well. " Major Grantly," she 
said, speaking out loud to him, half across the street ; " I was very 
angry with you yesterday. Why did you not come up to dinner ? We 
had a room ready for you and everything." 

" I was not quite well, Mrs. Thorne." 

" Fiddlestick. Don't tell me of not being well. There was Emily 
breaking her heart about you." 

" I'm sure Miss Dunstable " 

" To tell you the truth, I think she'll get over it. It won't be 
mortal with her. But do tell me, Major Grantly, what are we to think 
about this poor Mr. Crawley ? It was so good of you to be one of his 

" He would have found twenty in Silverbridge, if he had wanted 

"And do you hear that he has defied the bishop? I do so like him 
for that. Not but what poor Mrs. Proudie is the dearest friend I have 
in the world, and I'm always fighting a battle with old Lady Lufton 


on her behalf. But one likes to see one's friends worsted sometimes, 
you know." 

" I don't quite understand what did happen at Hogglestock on 
Sunday," said the major. 

" Some say he had the bishop's chaplain put under the pump. I 
don't believe that ; but there is no doubt that when the poor fellow 
tried to get into the pulpit, they took him and carried him neck and 
heels out of the church. But, tell me, Major Grantly, what is to 
become of the family ? " 

" Heaven knows ! " 

" Is it not sad ? And that eldest girl is so nice ! They tell me 
that she is perfect, not only in beauty, but in manners and accom- 
plishments* Everybody says that she talks Greek just as well as she 
does English, and that she understands philosophy from the top to 
the bottom." 

" At any rate, she is so good and so lovely that one cannot but 
pity her now," said the major. 

" You know her, then, Major Grantly ? By-the-by, of course you 
do, as you were staying with her at Framley." 

" Yes, I know her." 

" What is to become of her ? I'm going your way. You might as 
well get into the carriage, and I'll drive you home. If he is sent to 
prison, and they say he must be sent to prison, what is to become 
of them?" Then Major Grantly did get into the carriage, and, before 
he got out again, he had told Mrs. Thorne the whole story of his love. 

She listened to him with the closest attention ; only interrupting 
him now and then with little words, intended to signify her approval. 
He, as he told his tale, did not look her in the face, but sat with 
his eyes fixed upon her muff. " And now," he said, glancing up at 
her almost for the first time as he finished his speech, "and now, 
Mrs. Thorne, what am I to do ? " 

" Marry her, of course," said she, raising her hand' aloft and 
bringing it down heavily upon his knee as she gave her decisive reply. 

"H sh h," he exclaimed, looking back in dismay towards the 

" Oh, they never hear anything up there. They're thinking about 
the last pot of porter they had, or the next they're to get. Deary me, 
I am so glad ! Of course you'll marry her." 

" You forget my father." 

" No, I don't. What has a father to do with it ? You're old 
enough to please yourself without asking your father. Besides, Lord 


bless me, the archdeacon isn't the man to bear malice. He'll storm 
and threaten and stop the supplies for a month or so. Then he'll 
double them, and take your wife to his bosom, and kiss her and bless 
her, and all that kind of thing. We all know what parental wrath 
means in such cases as that." 

" But my sister ' 

" As for your sister, don't talk to me about her. I don't care two 
straws about your sister. You must excuse me, Major Grantly, but 
Lady Hartletop is really too big for my powers of vision." 

" And Edith, of course, Mrs. Thome, I can't be blind to the fact 
that in many ways such a marriage would be injurious to her. No 
man wishes to be connected with a convicted thief." 

" No, Major Grantly ; but a man does wish to marry the girl that 
he loves. At least, I suppose so. And what man ever was able to 
give a more touching proof of his affection than you can do now ? If I 
were you, I'd be at Allington before twelve o'clock to-morrow, I would 
indeed. What does it matter about the trumpery cheque ? Every- 
body knows it was a mistake, if he did take it. And surely you would 
not punish her for that." 

" No, no ; but I don't suppose she'd think it a punishment." 

" You go and ask her, then. And I'll tell you what. If she hasn't 
a house of her own to be married from, she shall be married from 
Chaldicotes. We'll have such a breakfast ! And I'll make as much 
of her as if she were the daughter of my old friend, the bishop himself, 
I will indeed." 

This was Mrs. Thome's advice. Before it was completed, Major 
Grantly had been carried half-way to Chaldicotes. When he left his 
impetuous Mend he was too prudent to make any promise, but he 
declared that what she had said should have much weight with him. 

" You won't mention it to anybody ?" said the major. 

" Certainly not, without your leave," said Mrs. Thome. "Don't 
you know that I'm the soul of honour ? " 


OME kind and attentive reader 
may perhaps remember that 
Miss Grace Crawley, in a letter 
written by her to her friend 
Miss Lily Dale, said a -word or 
two of a certain John. "If it 
can only be as John wishes 
it ! " And the same reader, if 
there be one so kind and atten- 
tive, may also remember that 
Miss Lily Dale had declared, 
in reply, that " about that 
other subject she would rather 
say nothing," and then she 
had added, "When one thinks 
of going beyond friendship, 
even if one tries to do so, 
there are so many barriers ! " 
From which words the kind and attentive reader, if such reader be in 
such matters intelligent as well as kind and attentive, may have learned 
a great deal with reference to Miss Lily Dale. 

We will now pay a visit to the John in question, a certain 
Mr. John Eames, living in London, a bachelor, as the intelligent reader 
will certainly have discovered, and cousin to Miss Grace Crawley. 
Mr. John Eames at the time of our story was a young man, some seven 
or eight and twenty years of age, living in London, where he was sup- 
posed by his friends in the country to have made his mark, and to be 
something a little out of the common way. But I do not know that he 
was very much out of the common way, except in the fact that he had 
had some few thousand pounds left him by an old nobleman, who had 
been in no way related to him ; but who had regarded him with great 
affection, and who had died some two years since. Before this, John 
Eames had not been a very poor man, as he filled the comfortable 
official position of private secretary to the Chief Commissioner of the 


Income-tax Board, and drew a salary of three hundred and fifty pounds 
a year from the resources of his country ; but when, in addition to this 
source of official wealth, he became known as the undoubted possessor 
of a hundred and twenty- eight shares in one of the most prosperous 
joint-stock banks in the metropolis, which property had been left to him 
free of legacy duty by the lamented nobleman above named, then 
Mr. John Eaines rose very high indeed as a young man in the estima- 
tion of those who knew him, and was supposed to be something a good 
deal out of the common way. His mother, who lived in the country, 
was obedient to his slightest word, never venturing to impose upon 
him any sign of parental authority ; and to his sister, Mary Eames, 
who lived with her mother, he was almost a god upon earth'. To 
sisters who have nothing of their own, not even some special god for 
their own individual worship, generous, affectionate, unmarried 
brothers, with sufficient incomes, are ods upon earth. 

And even up in London Mr. John Eames was somebody. He was 
so especially at his office ; although, indeed, it was remembered by many 
a man how raw a lad he had been when he first came there, not so very 
many years ago ; and how they had laughed at him and played him 
tricks ; and how he had customarily been known to be without a 
shilling for the last week before pay-day, during which period he would 
borrow sixpence here and a shilling there with great energy, from men 
who now felt themselves to be honoured when he smiled upon them. 
Little stories of his former days would often be told of him behind his 
back ; but they were not told with ill-nature, because he was very con- 
stant in referring to the same matters himself. And it was acknow- 
ledged by every one at the office, that neither the friendship of the 
nobleman, nor the fact of the private secretaryship, nor the acquisition 
of his wealth, had made him proud to his old companions or forgetful 
of old friendships. To the young men, lads who had lately been 
appointed, he was perhaps a little cold ; but then it was only reason- 
able to conceive that such a one as Mr. John Eames was now could not 
be expected to make an intimate acquaintance with every new clerk 
that might be brought into the office. Since competitive examinations 
had come into vogue, there was no knowing who might be introduced ; 
and it was understood generally through the establishment, and I 
may almost say by the civil service at large, so wide was his fame, 
that Mr. Eames was very averse to the whole theory of competition. 
The " Devil take the hindmost " scheme, he called it ; and would then 
go on to explain that hindmost candidates were often the best gentle- 
men, and that, in this way, the Devil got the pick of the flock. And 


he was respected the more for this opinion, because it was known that 
on this subject he had fought some hard battles with the chief com- 
missioner. The chief commissioner was a great believer in competi- 
tion, wrote papers about it, which he read aloud to various bodies of 
the civil service, not at all to their delight, which he got to be printed 
here and there, and which he sent by post all over the kingdom. More 
than once this chief commissioner had told his private secretary that 
they must part company, unless the private secretary could see fit to 
alter his view, or could, at least, keep his views to himself. But the 
private secretary would do neither ; and, nevertheless, there he was, 
still private secretary. "It's because Johnny has got money," said 
one of the young clerks, who was discussing this singular state of things 
with his brethren at the office. " When a chap has got money, he may 
do what he likes. Johnny has got lots of money, you know." The 
young clerk in question was by no means on intimate terms with 
Mr. Eames, but there had grown up in the office a way of calling him 
Johnny behind his back, which had probably come down from the early 
days of his scrapes and his poverty. 

Now the entire life of Mr. John Eames was pervaded by a great 
secret ; and although he never, in those days, alluded to the subject in 
conversation with any man belonging to the office, yet the secret was 
known to them all. It had been historical for the last four or five 
years, and was now regarded as a thing of course. Mr. John Eames 
was in love, and his love was not happy. He was in love, and had 
long been in love, and the lady of his love was not kind to him. The 
little history had grown to be very touching and pathetic, having 
received, no doubt, some embellishments from the imaginations of the 
gentlemen of the Income-tax Office. It was said of him that he had 
been in love from his early boyhood, that at sixteen he had been 
engaged, under the sanction of the nobleman now deceased and of the 
young lady's parents, that contracts of betrothals had been drawn up, 
and things done very unusual in private families in these days, and 
that then there had come a stranger into the neighbourhood just as the 
young lady was beginning to reflect whether she had a heart of her own 
or not, and that she had thrown her parents, and the noble lord, and 

the contract, and poor Johnny Eames to the winds, and had Here 

the story took different directions, as told by different men. Some said 
the lady had gone off with the stranger, and that there had been a 
clandestine marriage, which afterwards turned out to be no marriage at 
all ; others, that the stranger suddenly took himself off, and was no 
more seen Ipj the young lady ; others that he owned at last to having 

M 2 


another wife, and so on. The stranger was very well known to be 
one Mr. Crosbie, belonging to another public office ; and there were 
circumstances in his life, only half known, which gave rise to these 
various rumours. But there was one thing certain, one point as 'to 
which no clerk in the Income-tax Office had a doubt, one fact which 
had conduced much to the high position which Mr. John Eames now 
held in the estimation of his brother clerks, he had given this 
Mr. Crosbie such a thrashing that no man had ever received such treat- 
ment before and had lived through it. Wonderful stories were told 
about that thrashing, so that it was believed, even by the least enthu- 
siastic in such matters, that the poor victim had only dragged on a 
crippled existence since the encounter. "For nine weeks he never said 
a word or eat a mouthful," said one young clerk to a younger clerk 
who was just entering the office ; " and even how he can't speak 
above a whisper, and has to take all his food in pap." It will 
bo seen, therefore, that Mr. John Eames had about him much of the 

That he was still in love, and in love with the same lady, was known 
to every one in the office. When it was declared of him that in the 
way of amatory expressions he had never in his life opened his mouth 
to another woman, there were those in the office who knew that this 
was an exaggeration. Mr. Craclell, for instance, who in his early years 
had been very intimate with John Eames, and who still kept up the old 
friendship, although, being a domestic man, with a wife and six young 
children, and living on a small income, he did not go much out among 
his friends, could have told a very different story ; for Mrs. Cradell 
herself -had, in days before Cradell had made good his claim upon her, 
been not unadmired by Cradell' s fellow- clerk. But the constancy of 
Mr. Eames's present love was doubted by none who knew him. It was 
not that he went about with his stockings ungartered, or any of the old 
acknowledged signs of unrequited affection. In his manner he was 
rather jovial than otherwise, and seemed to live a happy, somewhat 
luxurious life, well contented with himself and the world around kim. 
But still he had this passion within his bosom, and I am inclined to 
think that he was a little proud of his own constancy. 

It might be presumed that when Miss Dale wrote to her Mend 
Grace Crawley about going beyond friendship, pleading that there were 
so many "barriers," she had probably seen her way over most of them. 
But this was not so ; nor did John Eames himself at all believe that 
the barriers were in a way to be overcome. I will not say that he had 
given the whole thing up as a bad job, because it was the law of his life 


that the thing never should be abandoned as long as hope was possible. 
Unless Miss Dale should become the wife of somebody else, he would 
ahvays regard himself as affianced to her. He had so declared to Miss 
Dale herself and to Miss Dale's mother, and to all the Dale people who 
had ever been interested in the matter. And there was an old lady 
living in Miss Dale's neighbourhood, the sister of the lord who had left 
Johnny Eames the bank shares, who always fought his battles for him, 
and kept a close look-out, fully resolved that John Eames should be 
rewarded at last. This old lady was connected with the Dales by family 
ties, and therefore had means of close observation. She was in constant 
correspondence with John Eames, and never failed to acquaint him 
when any of the barriers were, in her judgment, giving way. The 
nature of some of the barriers may possibly be made intelligible to my 
readers by the following letter from Lady Julia De Guest to her 
young friend. 

" MY DEAR JOHN, " Guestwick Cottage, December, 186. 

" I AM much obliged to you for going to Jones's. I send 
stamps for two shillings and fourpence, which is what I owe you. It 
used only to be two shillings and twopence, but they say everything has 
got to be dearer now, and I suppose pills as well as other things. Only 
think of Pritchard coming to me, and saying she wanted her wages raised, 
after living with me for twenty years ! I was very angry, and scolded 
her roundly ; but as she acknowledged she had been wrong, and cried 
and begged my pardon, I did give her two guineas a year more. 

" I saw dear Lily just for a moment on Sunday, and upon my word 
I think she grows prettier every year. She had a young friend with her, 
a Miss Crawley, who, I believe, is the cousin I have heard you speak 
of. What is this sad story about her father, the clergyman ? Mind 
you tell me all about it. 

" It is quite true what I told you about the De Courcys. Old Lady 
De Courcy is in London, and Mr. Crosbie is going to law with her 
about his wife's money. He has been at it in one way or the other ever 
since poor Lady Alexandrina died. I wish she had lived, with all my 
heart. For though I feel sure that our Lily will never willingly see him 
again, yet the tidings of her death disturbed her, and set her thinking 
of things that were fading from her mind. I rated her soundly, 
not mentioning your name, however ; but she only kissed me, and 
told me in her quiet drolling way that I didn't mean a word of what 
I said. 

" You can come here whenever you please after the tenth of 


January. But if you come early in January you must go to your 

mother first, and come to me for the last week of your holiday. Go to 

Blackie's in Kegent Street, and bring me down all the colours in wq^l 

that I ordered. I said you would call. And tell them at Dolland's the 

last spectacles don't suit at all, and I won't keep them. They had 

better send me down, by you, one or two more pairs to try. And you 

had better see Smithers and Smith, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, No. 57 

but you have been there before, and beg them to let me know how 

my poor dear brother's matters are to be settled at last. As far as I 

can see I shall be dead before I shall know what income I have got to 

spend. As to my cousins at the manor, I never see them ; and as to 

talking to them about business, I should not dream of it. She hasn't 

come to me since she first called, and she may be quite sure I shan't go 

to her till she does. Indeed I think we shall like each other apart quite 

as much as we should together. So let me know when you're coming, 

and pray don't forget to call at Blackie's ; nor yet at Dolland's, which 

is much more important than the wool, because of my eyes getting so 

weak. But what I want you specially to remember is about Smithers 

and Smith. How is a woman to live if she doesn't know how much 

she has got to spend ? 

" Believe me to be, my dear John, 

"Your most sincere friend, 


Lady Julia always directed her letters for her young friend to his 
office, and there he received the one now given to the reader. "When 
he had read it he made a memorandum as to the commissions, and 
then threw himself back in his arm-chair to think over the tidings 
communicated to him. All the facts stated he had known before; 
that Lady De Courcy was in London, and that her son-in-law, 
Mr. Crosbie, whose wife, Lady Alexandrina, had died some twelve 
months since at Baden Baden, was at variance with her respecting 
money which he supposed to be due to him. But there was that in 
Lady Julia's letter wnich was wormwood to him. Lily Dale was 
again thinking of this man, whom she had loved in old days, and who 
had treated her with monstrous perfidy ! It was all very well for Lady 
Julia to be sure that Lily Dale would never desire to see Mr. Crosbie 
again ; but John Eames was by no means equally certain that it would 
be so. " The tidings of her death disturbed her ! " said Johnny, 
repeating to himself certain words out of the old lady's letter. "I 
know they disturbed me. I wish she could have lived for ever. If ha 


ever ventures to show himself within ten miles of Allington, I'll see if 
I cannot do better than I did the last time I met him ! " Then there 
came a knock at the door, and the private secretary, finding himself to 
be somewhat annoyed by the disturbance at such a moment, bade the 
intruder enter in angry voice. " Oh, it's you, Cradell, is it ? What 
can I do for you ? " Mr. Cradell, who now entered, and who, as before 
said, was an old ally of John Eames, was a clerk of longer standing in 
the department than his friend. In age he looked to be much older, 
and he had left with him none of that appearance of the gloss of youth 
which will stick for many years to men who are fortunate in their 
worldly affairs. Indeed it may be said that Mr. Cradell was almost 
shabby in his outward appearance, and his brow seemed to be laden 
with care, and his eyes were dull and heavy. 

" I thought I'd just come in and ask you how you are," said 

" I'm pretty well, thank you ; and how are you ? " 

" Oh, I'm pretty well, in health, that is. You see one has so 
many things to think of when one has a large family. Upon my 
word, Johnny, I think you've been lucky to keep out of it." 

" I have kept out of it, at any rate ; haven't I ? " 

" Of course; living with you as much as I used to do, I know the 
whole story of what has kept you single." 

" Don't mind about that, Cradell ; what is it you want ? " 

" I mustn't let you suppose, Johnny, that I'm grumbling about my 
lot. Nobody knows better than you what a trump I got in my wife." 

" Of course you did ; an excellent woman." 

" And if I cut you out a little there, I'm sure you never felt malice 
against me for that." 

" Never for a moment, old fellow." 

" We all have our luck, you know." 

"Your luck has been a wife and family. My luck has been to be 
a bachelor." 

"You may say a family," said Cradell. "I'm sure that Amelia 
does the best she can ; but we are desperately pushed some times, 
desperately pushed. I never was so bad, Johnny, as I am now." 

" So you said the last time." 

" Did I ? I don't remember it. I didn't think I was so bad then. 
But, Johnny, if you can let me have one more fiver now I have made 
arrangements with Amelia how I'm to pay you off by thirty shillings a 
month, as I get my salary. Indeed I have. Ask her else." 

"I'll be shot if I do." 


"Don't say that, Johnny." 

" It's no good your Johnnying me, for I won't be Johnnyed out of 
another shilling. It comes too often, and there's no reason why I 
should do it. And what's more, I can't afford it. I've people of my 
own to help." 

" But oh, Johnny, we all know how comfortable you are. And I'm 
sure no one rejoiced as I did when the money was left to you. If it 
had been myself I could hardly have thought more of it. Upon my 
solemn word and honour if you'll let me have it this time, it shall be 
the last." 

" Upon my word and honour then, I won't. There must be an 
end to everything." 

Although Mr. Cradell would probably, if pressed, have admitted 
the truth of this last assertion, he did not seem to think that the end 
had as yet come to his friend's benevolence. It certainly had not come 
to his own importunity. " Don't say that, Johnny ; pray don't." 

" But I do say it." 

" When I told Amelia yesterday evening that I didn't like to go to 
you again, because of course a man has feelings, she told me to mention 
her name. ' I'm sure he'd do it for my sake,' she said." 

" I don't believe she said anything of the kind." 

" Upon my word she did. You ask her." 

" And if she did, she oughtn't to have said it." 

" Oh, Johnny, don't speak in that way of her. She's my wife, and 
you know what your own feelings were once. But look here, we are 
in that state at home at this moment, that I must get money some- 
where before I go home. I must, indeed. If you'll let me have three 
pounds this once, I'll never ask you again. I'll give you a written 
promise if you like, and I'll pledge myself to pay it back by thirty 
shillings a time out of the two next months' salary. I will, indeed." 
And then Mr. Cradell began to cry. But when Johnny at last took out 
his cheque-book and wrote a cheque for three pounds, Mr. Cradell's 
eyes glistened with joy. "Upon my word I am so much obliged to 
you ! You are the best fellow that ever lived. And Amelia will say 
the same when she hears of it." 

"I. don't believe she'll say anything of the kind, Cradell. If I 
remember anything of her, she has a stouter heart than that." 
Cradell admitted that his wife had a stouter heart than himself, and 
then made his way back to his own part of the office. 

This little interruption to the current of Mr. Eames's thoughts was, 
I think, for the good of the service, as, immediately on his friend's 


departure, he went to his work ; whereas, had not he been thus called 
away from his reflections about Miss Dale, he would have sat thinking 
about her affairs probably for the rest of the morning. As it was, he 
really did write a dozen notes in answer to as many private letters 
addressed to his chief, Sir Baffle Buffle, in all of which he made excel- 
lently-worded false excuses for the non-performance of various requests 
made to Sir- Baffle by the writers. " He's about the best hand at it that 
I know," said Sir Kaffle, one day, to the secretary ; " otherwise you may 
be sure I shouldn't keep him there." " I will allow that he is clever," 
said the secretary. "It isn't cleverness, so much as tact. It's what I 
call tact. I hadn't been long in the service before I mastered it myself ; 
and now that I've been at the trouble to teach him I don't want to 
have the trouble to teach another. But upon my word he must mind 
his >'s and <?'s ; upon my word he must ; and you had better tell him 
so." " The fact is, Mr. Kissing," said the private secretary the next 
day to the secretary, Mr. Kissing was at that time secretary to the 
board of commissioners for the receipt of income tax " The fact is, 
Mr. Kissing, Sir Raffle should never attempt to write a letter himself. 
He doesn't knew how to do it. He always says twice too much, and 
yet not half enough. I wish you'd tell him so. He won't believe me." 
From which it will be seen Mr. Eames was proud of his special accom- 
plishment, but did not feel any gratitude to the master who assumed to 
himself the glory of having taught him. On the present occasion John 
Eames wrote all his letters before he thought again of Lily Dale, and 
was able to write them without interruption, as the chairman was absent 
for the day at the Treasury, or perhaps at his club. Then, when he 
had finished, he rang his bell, and ordered some sherry and soda- 
water, and stretched himself before the fire, as though his exertions in 
the public service had been very great, and seated himself comfort- 
ably in his arm-chair, and lit a cigar, and again took out Lady Julia's 

As regarded the cigar, it may be said that both Sir Raffle and 
Mr. Kissing had given orders that on no account should cigars be lit 
within the precincts of the Income-tax Office. Mr. Eames had taken 
upon himself to understand that such orders did not apply to a private 
secretary, and was well aware that Sir Raffle knew his habit. To 
Mr. Kissing, I regret to say, he put himself in opposition whenever 
and wherever opposition was possible ; so that men in the office said 
that one of the two must go at last. "But Johnny can do anything, 
you know, because he has got money." That was too frequently the 
opinion finally expressed among the men. 


So John Eames sat down, and drank his soda-water, and smoked 
his cigar, and read his letter ; or rather, simply that paragraph of the 
letter which referred to Miss Dale. " The tidings of her death have 
disturbed her, and set her thinking again of things that were fading 
from her mind." He understood it all. And yet how could it possibly 
be so ? How could it be that she should not despise a man, despise 
him if she did not hate him, who had behaved as this man had 
behaved to her ? It was now four years since this Crosbie had been 
engaged to Miss Dale, and had jilted her so heartlessly as to incur the 
disgust of every man in London who had heard the story. He had 
married an earl's daughter, who had left him within a few months of 
their marriage, and now Mr. Crosbie's noble wife was dead. The wife 
was dead; and simply because the man was free again, he, John 
Eames, was to be told that Miss Dale's mind was " disturbed," and 
that her thoughts were going back to things which had faded from 
her memory, and which should have been long since banished alto- 
gether from such holy ground. 

If Lily Dale were now to marry Mr. Crosbie, anything so perversely 
cruel as the fate of John Eames would never yet have been told in 
romance. That was his own idea on the matter as he sat smoking his 
cigar. I have said that he was proud of his constancy, and yet, in 
some sort, he was also ashamed of it. He acknowledged the fact of his 
love, and believed himself to have out-Jacobed Jacob ; but he felt that 
it was hard for a man who had risen in the world as he had done to 
be made a plaything of by a foolish passion. It was now four years 
ago, that affair of Crosbie, and Miss Dale should have accepted him 
long since. Half-a-dozen times he had made up his mind to be very 
stern to her ; and he had written somewhat sternly, but the first 
moment that he saw her he was conquered again. " And now that 
brute will reappear, and everything will be wrong again," he said to 
himself. If the brute did reappear, something should happen of 
which the world should hear the tidings. So he lit another cigar, and 
began to think what that something should be. 

As he did so he heard a loud noise, as of harsh, rattling winds in 
the next room, and he knew that Sir Baffle had come back from the 
Treasury. There was a creaking of boots, and a knocking of chairs, 
and a ringing of bells, and then a loud angry voice, a voice that was 
very harsh, and on this occasion very angry. Why had not his twelve- 
o'clock letters been sent up to him to the West End ? Why not ? 
Mr. Eames knew all about it. Why did Mr. Eames know all about it ? 
Why had not Mr. Eames sent them up ? Where was Mr. Eames ? 


Let Mr. Eames be sent to him. All which Mr. Eames heard standing 
with the cigar in his mouth and his back to the fire. " Somebody has 
been bullying old Buffle, I suppose. After all he has been at the Trea- 
sury to-day," said Eames to himself. But he did not stir till the 
messenger had been to him, nor even then, at once. " All right, 
Rafferty," he said ; " I'll go in just now." Then he took half-a-dozen 
more whins from the cigar, threw the remainder into the fire, and 
opened the door which communicated between his room and Sir 

The great man was standing with two unopened epistles in his 
hand. " Eames," said he, " here are letters Then he stopped 

himself, and began upon another subject. " Did I not give express 
orders that I would have no smoking in the office ?" 
" I think Mr. Kissing said something about it, sir." 
" Mr. Kissing ! It was not Mr. Kissing at all. It was I. I gave 
the order myself." 

" You'll find it began with Mr. Kissing." 

" It did not begin with Mr. Kissing ; it began and ended with me. 
What are you going to do, sir?" John Eames had stepped towards 
the bell, and his hand was already on the bell-pull. 
" I was going to ring for the papers, sir." 

"And who told you to ring for the papers? I don't want the 
papers. The papers won't show anything. I suppose my word may 

be taken without the papers. Since you're so fond of Mr. Kissing " 

"I'm not fond of Mr. Kissing at all." 

"You'll have to go back to him, and let somebody come here who 
will not be too independent to obey my orders. Here are two most 
important letters have been lying here all day, instead of being sent up 
to me at the Treasury." 

" Of course they have been lying there. I thought you were at 
the club." 

"I told you I should go to the Treasury. I have been there all 
the morning with the chancellor," when Sir Raffle spoke officially of 
the chancellor he was not supposed to mean the Lord Chancellor "and 
here I find letters which I particularly wanted lying upon my desk now. 
I must put an end to this kind of thing. I must, indeed. If you like 
the outer office better say so at once, and you can go." 
" I'll think about it, Sir Raffle." 

" Think about it ! "What do you mean by thinking about it ? But 
I can't talk about that now. I'm very busy, and shall be here till past 
seven. I suppose you can stay ?" 


" All niglit, if you wish it, sir." 

" Very well. That will do for the present. I wouldn't have had 
these letters delayed for twenty pounds." 

" I don't suppose it would have mattered one straw if both of them 
remained unopened till next week." This last little speech, however, 
was not made aloud to Sir Raffle, but by Johnny to himself in the 
solitude of his own room. 

Very soon after that he went away, Sir Baffle having discovered 
that one of the letters in question required his immediate return to the 
West End. " I've changed my mind about staying. I shan't stay now. 
I should have done if these letters had reached me as they ought." 

" Then I suppose I can go ? " 

" You can do as you like about that," said Sir Baffle. 

Eames did do as he liked, and went home, or to his club ; and as 
he went he resolved that he would put an end, and at once, to the 
present trouble of his life. Lily Dale should 'accept him or reject him; 
and, taking either the one or the other alternative, she should hear a 
bit of his mind plainly spoken. 



IT was Christmas-time down at Allington, and at three o'clock on 
Christmas Eve, just as the darkness of the early winter evening was 
coming on, Lily Dale and Grace Crawley were seated together, one 
above the other, on the steps leading up to the pulpit in Allington 
Church. They had been working all day at the decorations of the 
church, and they were now looking round them at the result of their 
handiwork. To an eye unused to the gloom the place would have 
been nearly dark ; but they could see every corner turned by the ivy 
sprigs, and every line on which the holly-leaves were shining. And 
the greeneries of the winter had not been stuck up in the old-fashioned, 
idle way, a bough just fastened up here and a twig inserted there ; but 
everything had been done with some meaning, with some thought 
towards the original architecture of the building. The Gothic lines 
had been followed, and all the lower arches which it had been possible 
to reach with an ordinary ladder had been turned as truly with the 
laurel cuttings as they had been turned originally with the stone. 


" I wouldn't tie another twig," said the elder girl, " for all the 
Christmas pudding that was ever boiled." 

"It's lucky then that there isn't another twig to tie." 

" I don't know about that. I see a score of places where the work 
has been scamped. This is the sixth time I have done the church, and 
I don't think I'll ever do it again. When we first began it, Bell and I, 
you know, before Bell was married, Mrs. Boyce, and the Boycian 
establishment generally, used to come and help. Or rather we used 
to help her. Now she hardly ever looks after it at all." 

" She is older, I suppose." 

" She's a little older, and a deal idler. How idle people do get ! 
Look at him. Since he has had a curate he hardly ever stirs round 

the parish. And he is getting so fat that H sh ! Here she is 

herself, come to give her judgment upon us." Then a stout lady, the 
wife of the vicar, walked slowly up the aisle. " Well, girls," she said, 
"you have worked hard, and I am sure Mr. Boyce will be very much 
obliged to you." 

"Mr. Boyce, indeed!" said Lily Dale. "We shall expect the 
whole parish to rise from their seats and thank us. Why didn't Jane 
and Bessy come and help us ? " 

" They were so tired when they came in from the coal club. 
Besides, they don't care for this kind of thing, not as you do." 

"Jane is utilitarian to the backbone, I know," said Lily, "and 
Bessy doesn't like getting up ladders." 

" As for ladders," said Mrs. Boyce, defending her daughter, " I 
am not quite sure that Bessy isn't right. You don't mean to say that 
you did all those in the capitals yourself? " 

"Every twig, with Hopkins to hold the ladder and cut the sticks ; 
and as Hopkins is just a hundred and one years old, we could have 
done it pretty nearly as well alone." 

"I do not think that," said Grace. 

" He has been grumbling all the time," said Lily, " and swears 
he never will have the laurels so robbed again. Five or six years ago 
he used to declare that death would certainly save him from the pain 
of such another desecration before the next Christmas ; but he has 
given up that foolish notion now, and talks as though he meant to 
protect the Allington shrubs at any rate to the end of this century." 

" I am sure we gave our share from the parsonage," said Mrs. 
Boyce, who never understood a joke. 

" All the best came from the parsonage, as of course they ought," 
said Lily. " But Hopkins had to make up the deficiency. And as 


my uncle told him to take the haycart for them instead of the hand- 
barrow, he is hroken-hearted." 

"I am sure he was very good-natured," said Grace. 

" Nevertheless he is broken-hearted ; and I am very good-natured 
too, and I am broken-backed. Who is going to preach to-morrow 
morning, Mrs. Boyce ? " 

" Mr. Swanton will preach in the morning." 

" Tell him not to be long, because of the children's pudding. Tell 
Mr. Boyce if he is long, we won't any of us come next Sunday." 

" My dear, how can you say such wicked things ! I shall not tell 
him anything of the kind." 

" That's not wicked, Mrs. Boyce. If I were to say I had eaten 
so much lunch that I didn't want any dinner, you'd understand that. 
If Mr. Swanton will preach for three-quarters of an hour 

"He only preached for three-quarters of an hour once, Lily." 

" He has been over the half-hour every Sunday since he has been 
here. His average is over forty minutes, and I say it's a shame." 

"It is not a shame at all, Lily," said Mrs. Boyce, becoming very 
serious. , 

" Look at my uncle ; he doesn't like to go to sleep, and he has 
to suffer a purgatory in keeping himself awake." 

"If your uncle is heavy, how can Mr. Swanton help it? If Mr. 
Dale's mind were on the subject he would not sleep." 

" Come, Mrs. Boyce ; there's somebody else sleeps sometimes 
besides my uncle. When Mr. Boyce puts up his finger and just 
touches his nose, I know as well as possible why he does it." 

" Lily Dale, you have no business to say so. It is not true. I 
don't know how you can bring yourself to talk in that way of your ovrn 
clergyman. If I were to tell your mamma she would be shocked." 

" You won't be so ill-natured, Mrs. Boyce, after all that I've done 
for the church." 

" If you'd think more about the clergyman, Lily, and less aibout 
the church," said Mrs. Boyce very sententiously, " more about the 
matter and less about the manner, more of the reality and less of the 
form, I think you'd find that your religion would go further with you. 
Miss Crawley is the daughter of a clergyman, and I'm sure she'll agree 
with me." 

" If she agrees with anybody in scolding me I'll quarrel with her." 

" I didn't mean to scold you, Lily." 

" I don't mind it from you, Mrs. Boyce. Indeed, I rather like it. 
It is a sort of pastoral visitation ; and as Mr. Boyce never scolds me 


himself, of course I take it as coming from him hy attorney." Then 
there was silence for a minute or two, during which Mrs. Boyce was 
endeavouring to discover whether Miss Dale was laughing at her or 
not. As she was not quite certain, she thought at last that she would 
let the suspected fault pass unobserved. "Don't wait for us, Mrs. 
Boyce," said Lily. " We must remain till Hopkins has sent Gregory 
to sweep the church out and take away the rubbish. We'll see that 
the key is left at Mrs. Giles's." 

" Thank you, my dear. Then I may as well go. I thought I'd 
come in and see that it was all right. I'm sure Mr. Boyce will be very 
much obliged to you and Miss Crawley. Good-night, my dear." 

" Good-night, Mrs. Boyce ; and be sure you don't let Mr. Swanton 
be long to-morrow." To this parting shot Mrs. Boyce made no 
rejoinder ; but she hurried out of the church somewhat the quicker for 
it, and closed the door after her with something of a slam. 

Of all persons clergymen are the most irreverent in the handling of 
things supposed to be sacred, and next to them clergymen's wives, and 
after them those other ladies, old or young, who take upon themselves 
semi-clerical duties. And it is natural that it should be so ; for is it 
not said that familiarity does breed contempt ? When a parson takes 
his lay friend over his church on a week day, how much less of the 
spirit of genuflexion and head-uncovering the clergyman will display 
than the layman ! The parson pulls about the woodwork and knocks 
about the stonework, as though it were mere wood and stone ; and talks 
aloud in the aisle, and treats even the reading-desk as a common thing ; 
whereas the visitor whispers gently, and carries himself as though even 
in looking at a church he was bound to regard himself as performing 
some service that was half divine. Now Lily Dale and Grace Crawley 
were both accustomed to churches, and had been so long at work in 
this church for the last two days, that the building had lost to them 
much of its sacredness, and they were almost as irreverent as though 
they were two curates. 

" I am so glad she has gone," said Lily. " We shall have to stop here 
for the next hour, as Gregory won't know what to take away and what to 
leave. I was so afraid she was going to stop and see us off the premises." 

" I don't know why you should dislike her." 

" I don't dislike her. I like her very well," said Lily Dale. " But 
don't you feel that there are people whom one knows very intimately, 
who are really friends, for whom if they were dying one would grieve, 
whom if they were in misfortune one would go far to help, but with 
whom for all that one can have no sympathy. And yet they are so 


near to one that they know all the events of one's life, and are justified 
by unquestioned friendship in talking about things which should never 
be mentioned except where sympathy exists." 
" Yes ; I understand that." 

" Everybody understands it who has been unhappy. That woman 
sometimes says things to me that make me wish, wish that they'd 
make him bishop of Patagonia. And yet she .does it all in friendship, 
and mamma says that she is quite right." 

" I liked her for standing up for her husband." 
" But he does go to sleep, and then he scratches his nose to show 
that he's awake. I shouldn't have said it, only she is always hinting 
at uncle Christopher. Uncle Christopher certainly does go to sleep 
when Mr. Boyce preaches, and he hasn't studied any scientific little 
movements during his slumbers to make the people believe that he's 
all alive. I gave him a hint one day, and he got so angry with me ! " 

" I shouldn't have thought he could have been angry with you. It 
soems to me from what you say that you may do whatever you please 
with him." 

" He is very good to me. If yon knew it all, if you could under- 
stand how good he has been ! I'll try and tell you some day. It is 
not what he has done that makes me love him so, but what he has 
thoroughly understood, and what, so understanding, he has not done, 
and what he has not said. It is a case of sympathy. If ever there 
was a gentleman uncle Christopher is one. And I used to dislike him 
so, at one time ! " 

" And why?" 

" Chiefly because he would make me wear brown frocks when I 
wanted to have them pink or green. And he kept me for six months 
from having them long, and up to this day he scolds me if there is half 
an inch on the ground for him to tread upon." 

" I shouldn't mind that if I were you." 

" I don't, not now. But it used to be serious when I was a young 
girl. And we thought, Bell and I, that he was cross to mamma. He 
and mamma didn't agree at first, you know, as they do now. It is 
quite true that he did dislike mamma when we first came here." 

" I can't think how anybody could ever dislike Mrs. Dale." 

" But he did. And then he wanted to make up a marriage between 
Bell and my cousin Bernard. But neither of them cared a bit for the 
other, and then he used to scold them, and then, and then, and 
then Oh, he was so good to me ! Here's Gregory at last. Gregory, 
we've been waiting this hour and a half." 


" It ain't ten minutes since Hopkins let me come with the barrows, 

"Then Hopkins is a traitor. Never mind. You'd better begin 
now> lT p there at the steps. It'll be quite dark in a few minutes. 
Here's Mrs. Giles with her broom. Come, Mrs. Giles ; we shall have 
to pass the night here if you don't make haste. Are you cold, Grace ? " 

" No ; I'm not cold. I'm thinking what they are doing now in the 
church at Hogglestock." 

" The Hogglestock church is not pretty ; like this ? " 

" Oh, no. It is a very plain brick building, with something like a 
pigeon-house for a belfry. And the pulpit is over the reading-desk, 
and the reading-desk over the clerk, so that papa, when he preaches, 
is nearly up to the ceiling. And the whole place is divided into pews, 
in which the farmers hide themselves when they come to church." 

" So that nobody can see whether they go to sleep or no. Oh, 
Mrs. Giles, you mustn't pull that down. That's what we have been 
putting up all day." 

" But it be in the way, miss ; so that the minister can't budge in or 
out o' the door." 

"Nevermind. Then he must stay one side or the other. That 
would be too much after all our trouble ! " And Miss Dale hurried 
across the chancel to save some prettily arching boughs, which, in 
the judgment of Mrs. Giles, encroached too much on the vestry 
door. "As if it signified which side he was," she said in a whisper 
to Grace. 

"I t don't suppose they'll have anything in the church at home," 
said Grace. 

" Somebody will stick up a wreath or two, I daresay." 

" Nobody will. There never is anybody at Hogglestock to stick up 
wreaths, or to do anything for the prettinesses of life. And now there 
will be less done than ever. How can mamma look after holly-leaves 
in her present state ? And yet she will miss them, too. Poor mamma 
sees very little that is pretty ; but she has not forgotten how pleasant 
pretty things are." 

" I wish I knew your mother, Grace." 

" I think it would be impossible for any one to know mamma now, 
for any one who had not known her before. She never makes even a 
new acquaintance. She seems to think that there is nothing left for her 
in the world but to try and keep papa out of misery. And she does 
not succeed in that. Poor papa ! " 

" Is he very unhappy about this wicked accusation ? " 

VI. N 


" Yes ; he is very unhappy. But, Lily, I don't know about its 
being wicked." 

" But you know that it is untrue." 

" Of course I know that papa did not mean to take anything that 
was not his own. But, you see, nobody knows where it came from ; 
and nobody except mamma and Jane and I understand how very absent 
papa can be. I'm sure he doesn't know the least in the world how he 
came by it himself, or he would tell mamma. Do you know, Lily, I 
think I have been wrong to come away." 

" Don't say that, dear. Remember how anxious Mrs. Crawley was 
that you should come." 

" But I cannot bear to be comfortable here while they are so 
wretched at home. It seems such a mockery. Every time I find 
myself smiling at what you say to me, I think I must be the most 
heartless creature in the world." 

"Is it so very bad with them, Grace ? " 

"Indeed it is bad. I don't think you can imagine what mamma 
has to go through. She has to cook all that is eaten in the house, 
and then, very often, there is no money in the house to buy anything. 
If you were to see the clothes she wears, even that would make your 
heart bleed. I who have been used to being poor all my life, even I, 
when I am at home, am dismayed by what she has to endure." 

" What can we do for her, Grace ? " 

" You can do nothing, Lily. But when things are like that at 
home you can understand what I feel in being here." 

Mrs. Giles and Gregory had now completed their task, or had 
so nearly done so as to make Miss Dale think that she might safely 
leave the church. " We will go in now," she said ; "for it is dark and 
cold, and what I call, creepy. Do you ever fancy that perhaps you will 
see a ghost some day ? " 

" I don't think I shall ever see a ghost ; but all the same I should 
be half afraid to be here alone in the dark." 

" I am often here alone in the dark, but I am beginning to think I 
shall never see a ghost now. I am losing all my romance, and getting 
to be an old woman. Do you know, Grace, I do so hate myself for 
being such an old maid." 

" But who says you're an old maid, Lily ? " 

" I see it in people's eyes, and hear it in their voices. And they all 
talk to me as if I were very steady, and altogether removed from any- 
thing like fun and frolic. It seems to be admitted that if a girl does 
not want to fall in love, she ought not to care for any other fun in the 


world. If anybody made out a list of the old ladies in these parts, 
they'd put down Lady Julia, and mamma, and Mrs. Boyce, and me, 
and old Mrs. Hearne. The very children have an awful respect for me, 
and give over playing directly they see me. Well, mamma, we've done 
at last, and I have had such a scolding from Mrs. Boyce." 

" I daresay you deserved it, my dear." 

" No, I did not, mamma. Ask Grace if I did." 

"Was she not saucy to Mrs. Boyce, Miss Crawley? " 

" She said that Mr. Boyce scratches his nose in church," said Grace. 

" So he does ; and goes to sleep, too." 

"If you told Mrs. Boyce that, Lily, I think she was quite right to 
scold you." 

Such was Miss Lily Dale, with whom Grace Crawley was staying ; 
Lily Dale with whom Mr. John Eames, of the Income-tax Office, 
had heen so long and so steadily in love, that he was regarded among 
his fellow-clerks as a miracle of constancy, who had, herself, in former 
days been so unfortunate in love as to have been regarded among her 
friends in the country as the most ill-used of women. As John Eames 
had been able to be comfortable in life, that is to say, not utterly a 
wretch, in spite of his love, so had she managed to hold up her head, 
and live as other young women live, in spite of her misfortune. But as 
it may be said also that his constancy was true constancy, although he 
knew how to enjoy the good things of the world, so also had her mis- 
fortune been a true misfortune, although she had been able to bear it 
without much outer show of shipwreck. For a few days, for a week or 
two, when the blow first struck her, she had been knocked down, and 
the friends who were nearest to her had thought that she would never 
again stand erect upon her feet. But she had been very strong, stout 
at heart, of a fixed purpose, and capable of resistance against oppres- 
sion. Even her own mother had been astonished, and sometimes 
almost dismayed, by the strength of her will. Her mother knew well 
how it was with her now ; but they who saw her frequently, and who 
did not know her as her mother knew her, the Mrs. Boyces of her 
acquaintance, whispered among themselves that Lily Dale was not so 
soft of heart as people used to think. 

On the next day, Christmas Day, as the reader will remember, 
Grace Crawley was taken up to dine at the big house with the old 
squire. Mrs. Dale's eldest daughter, with her husband, Dr. Crofts, 
was to be there ; and also Lily's old friend, who was also especially 
the old friend of Johnny Eames, Lady Julia De Guest. Grace had 
endeavoured to be excused from the party, pleading many pleas. Bui 


the upshot of all her pleas was this, that while her father's position 
was so painful she ought not to go out anywhere. In answer to this, 
Lily Dale, corroborated by her mother, assured her that for her father's 
sake she ought not to exhibit any such feeling ; that in doing so, she 
would seem to express a doubt as to her father's innocence. Then 
she allowed herself to be persuaded, telling her friend, however, that 
she knew the day would be very miserable to her. " It will be very 
humdrum, if you please," said Lily. " Nothing can be more humdrum 
than Christmas at the Great House. Nevertheless, you must go." 

Coming out of church, Grace was introduced to the old squire. 
He was a thin, old man, with grey hair, and the smallest possible grey 
whiskers, with a dry, solemn face ; not carrying in his outward gait 
much of the customary jollity of Christmas. He took his hat off to 
Grace, and said some word to her as to hoping to have the pleasure of 
seeing her at dinner. It sounded very cold to her, and she became at 
once afraitl of him. " I wish I was not going," she said to Lily, 
again. " I know he thinks I ought not to go. I shall be so thankful 
if you will but let me stay." 

"Don't be foolish, Grace. It all comes from your not knowing 
him, or understanding him. And how should you understand him? 
I give you my word that I would tell you if I did not know that he 
wishes you to go." 

She had to go. */ Of course I haven't a dress fit. How should I ? " 
she said to Lily. " How wrong it is of me to put myself up to such a 
thing as this." 

" Your dress is beautiful, child. We are none of us going in 
evening dresses. Pray believe that I will not make you do wrong. If 
you won't trust me, can't you trust mamma ? " 

Of course she went. When the three ladies entered the drawing- 
room of the Great House they found that Lady Julia had arrived just 
before them. Lady Julia immediately took hold of Lily, and led her 
apart, having a word or two to say about the clerk in the Income-tax 
Office. I am not sure but what the dear old woman sometimes said a 
few more words than were expedient, with a view to the object which 
she had so closely at heart. " John is to be with us the first week in 
February," she said. "I suppose you'll see him before that, as he'll 
probably be with his mother a few days before he comes to me." 

" I daresay we shall see him quite in time, Lady Julia," said Lily. 

"Now, Lily, don't be ill-natured." 

" I'm the most good-natured young woman alive, Lady Julia, and 
as for Johnny, he is always made as welcome at the Small House as 



violets in March. Mamma purrs about him when he comes, asking all 
manner of flattering questions as 'though he were a cabinet minister at 
least, and I always admire some little knicknack that he has got, a new 
ring, or a stud, or a button. There isn't another man in all the world 
whose buttons I'd look at." 

" It isn't his buttons, Lily." 

11 Ah, that's just it. I can go as far as his buttons. But come, 
Lady Julia, this is Christmas-time, and Christmas should be a holiday." 

In the meantime Mrs. Dale was occupied with her married daughter 
and her son-in-law, and the squire had attached himself to poor Grace. 
" You have never been in this part of the country before, Miss Crawley," 
he said. 

" No, sir." 

" It is rather pretty just about here, and Guestwick Manor is a fine 
place in its way, but we have not so much natural beauty as you have 
in Barsetshire. Chaldicote Chase is, I think, as pretty as anything in 

"I never saw Chaldicote Chase, sir. It isn't pretty at all at 
Hogglestock, where we live." 

" Ah, I forgot. No ; it is not very pretty at Hogglestock. That's 
where the bricks come from." 

" Papa is clergyman at Hogglestock." 

" Yes, yes ; I remember. Your father is a great scholar. I have 
often heard of him. I am so sorry he should be distressed by this 
charge they have made. But it will all come right at the assizes. 
They always get at the truth there. I used to be intimate with a 
clergyman in Barsetshire of the name of Grantly ; " Grace felt that her 
ears were tingling, and that her face was red ; " Archdeacon Grantly. 
His father was bishop of the diocese." 

1 'Yes, sir. Archdeacon Grantly lives at Plumstead." 

" I was staying once with an old Mend of mine, Mr. Thorne of 
Ullathorne, who lives close to Plumstead, and saw a good deal of them. 
I remember thinking Henry Grantly was a very nice lad. He married 

" Yes, sir ; but his wife is dead now, and he has got a little girl, 
Edith Grantly." 

< 'Is there no other child?" 

"No, sir; only Edith." 

" You know him, then ? " 

"Yes, sir; I know Major Grantly, and Edith. I never saw 
Archdeacon Grantly." 


" Then, my dear, you never saw a very famous pillar of the 
church. I remember when people used to talk a great deal about 
Archdeacon Grantly ; but when his time came to be made a bishop, he 
was not sufficiently new-fangled; and so he got passed by. He is 
much better off as he is, I should say. Bishops have to work very- 
hard, my dear." 

" Do they, sir ? " 

" So they tell me. And the archdeacon is a wealthy man. So 
Henry Grantly has got an only daughter ? I hope she is a nice child, 
for I remember liking him well." 

" She is a very nice child, indeed, Mr. Dale. She could not be 
nicer. And she is so lovely." Then Mr. Dale looked into his young 
companion's face, struck by the sudden animation of her words, and 
perceived for the first time that she was very pretty. 

After this Grace became accustomed to the strangeness of the faces 
round her, and managed to eat her dinner without much perturbation 
of spirit. When after dinner the squire proposed to her that they 
should drink the health of her papa and mamma, she was almost 
reduced to tears, and yet she liked him for doing it. It was terrible 
to her to have them mentioned, knowing as she did that every one who 
mentioned them must be aware of their misery, for the misfortune of 
her father had become notorious in the country ; but it was almost 
more terrible to her that no allusion should be made to them ; for then 
she would be driven to think that her father was regarded as a man 
whom the world could not afford to mention. " Papa and mamma," 
she just murmured, raising her glass to her lips. " Grace, dear," said 
Lily from across the table, " here's papa and mamma, and the young 
man at Marlborough who is carrying everything before him." " Yes; 
we won't forget the young man at Marlborough," said the squire. 
Grace felt this to be good-natured, because her brother at Marlborough 
was the one bright spot in her family, and she was comforted. 

" And we will drink the health of my friend, John Eames," said 
Lady Julia. 

" John Eames' health," said the squire, in a low voice. 

" Johnny's health," said Mrs. Dale ; but Mrs. Dale's voice was not 
very brisk. 

" John's health," said Dr. Crofts and Mrs. Crofts in a breath. 

"Here's the health of Johnny Eames," said Lily; and her voice 
was tlie clearest and the boldest of them all. But she made up her 
mind that if Lady Julia could not be induced to spare her for the 
future, she and Lady Julia must quarrel. " No one can understand," 


she said to her mother that evening, " how dreadful it is, this being 
constantly told before one's family and friends that one ought to marry 
a certain young man." 

" She didn't say that, my dear." 

"I should much prefer that she should, for then I could get up on 
my legs and answer her off the reel." Of course everybody there under- 
stood what she meant, including old John Bates, who stood at the 
sideboard and coolly drank the toast himself. 

" He always does that to all the family toasts on Christmas Day. 
Your uncle likes it." 

"That wasn't a family toast, and John Bates had no right to 
drink it." 

After dinner they all played cards, a round game, and the squire 
put in the stakes. "Now, Grace," said Lily, "you are the visitor 
and you must win, or else uncle Christopher won't be happy. He 
always likes a young lady visitor to win." 

" But I never played a game of cards in my life." 

" Go and sit next to him and he'll teach you. Uncle Christopher, 
won't you teach Grace Crawley ? She never saw a Pope Joan board 
in her life before." 

" Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear, dear, dear ; 
fancy Henry Grantly having a little girl. What a handsome lad he 
was. And it seems only yesterday." If it was so that Lily had said 
a word to her uncle about Grace and the major, the old squire had 
become on a sudden very sly. Be that as it may, Grace Crawley 
thought that he was a pleasant old man ; and though, while talking 
to him about Edith, she persisted in not learning to play Pope Joan, 
so that he could not contrive that she should win, nevertheless the squire 
took to her very kindly, and told her to come up with Lily and see him 
sometimes while she was staying at the Small House. The squire in 
speaking of his sister-in-law's cottage always called it the Small House. 

" Only think of my winning," said Lady Julia, drawing together her 
wealth. " Well, I'm sure I want it bad enough, for I don't at all know 
whether I've got any income of my own. It's all John Eames' fault, 
my dear, for he won't go and make those people settle it in Lincoln's 
Inn Fields." Poor Lily, who was standing on the hearth-rug, touched 
her mother's arm. She knew that Johnny's name was lugged in with 
reference to Lady Julia's money altogether for her benefit. " I wonder 
whether she ever had a Johnny of her own," she said to her mother, 
" and, if so, whether she liked it when her friends sent the town-crier 
round to talk about him." 


" She means to be good-natured," said Mrs. Dale. 

" Of course she does. But it is such a pity when people won't 

" My uncle didn't bite you after all, Grace," said Lily to her friend 
as they were going home at night, by the pathway which led from the 
garden of one house to the garden of the other. 

"I like Mr. Dale very much," said Grace. " He was very kind 
to me." 

" There is some queer-looking animal of whom they say that he is 
better than he looks, and I always think of that saying when I think 
of my uncle." 

" For shame, Lily," said her mother. " Your uncle, for his age, 
is as good a looking man as I know. And he always looks like just 
what he is, an English gentleman." 

" I didn't mean to say a word against his dear old face and figure, 
mamma ; but his heart, and mind, and general disposition, as they 
come out in experience and days of trial, are so much better than the 
samples of them which he puts out on the counter for men and women 
to judge by. He wears well, and he washes well, if you know what 
I mean, Grace." 

" Yes ; I think I know what you mean." 

rt The Apollos of the world, I don't mean in outward looks, 
mamma, but the Apollos in _heart, the men, and the women too, 
who are so full of feeling, so soft-natured, so kind, who never say a 
cross word, who never get out of bed on the wrong side in the 
morning, it so often turns out that they won't wash." 

Such was the expression of Miss Lily Dale's experience. 



HE scene which occurred in 
Hogglestock church on the 
Sunday after Mr. Thumble's 
first visit to that parish had 
not been described with abso- 
lute accuracy either by the 
archdeacon in his letter to his 
son, or by Mrs. Thome. There 
had been no footman from the 
palace in attendance on Mr. 
Thumble, nor had there been a 
battle with the brickmakers ; 
neither had Mr. Thumble been 
put under the pump. But Mr. 
Thumble had gone over, taking 
his gown and surplice with him, 
on the Sunday morning, and 
had intimated to Mr. Crawley 
his intention of performing the service. Mr. Crawley, in answer to 
this, had assured Mr. Thumble that he would not be allowed to open 
his mouth in the church ; and Mr. Thumble, not seeing his way to any 
further successful action, had contented himself with attending the 
services in his surplice, making thereby a silent protest that he, and not 
Mr. Crawley, ought to have been in the reading-desk and the pulpit. 

When Mr. Thumble reported himself and his failure at the palace, 
he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs. Proudie, but not successfully. He 
knew something of the palace habits, and did manage to reach the 
bishop alone on the Sunday evening, justifying himself to his lordship 
for such an interview by the remarkable circumstances of the case and 
the importance of his late mission. Mrs. Proudie always went to 
church on Sunday evenings, making a point of hearing three services 
and three sermons every Sunday of her life. On week-days she seldom 
heard any, having an idea that week-day services were an invention of 
the High Church enemy, and that they should therefore be vehemently 



discouraged. Services on saints' days she regarded as rank papacy, 
and had been known to accuse a clergyman's wife, to her face, of 
idolatry, because the poor lady had dated a letter, St. John's Eve. 
Mr. Thumble, on this Sunday evening, was successful in finding the 
bishop at home, and alone, but he was not lucky enough to get away 
before Mrs. Proudie returned. The bishop, perhaps, thought that the 
story of the failure had better reach his wife's ears from Mr. Thumble's 
lips than from his own. 

" Well, Mr. Thumble ?" said Mrs. Proudie, walking into the study, 
armed in her full Sunday- evening winter panoply, in which she had 
Just descended from her carriage. The church which Mrs. Proudie 
attended in the evening was nearly half a mile from the palace, and the 
coachman and groom never got a holiday on Sunday night. She was 
gorgeous in a dark brown silk dress of awful stiffness and terrible 
dimensions ; and on her shoulders she wore a short cloak of velvet and 
fur, very handsome withal, but so swelling in its proportions on all 
sides as necessarily to create more of dismay than of admiration in the 
mind of any ordinary man. And her bonnet was a monstrous helmet 
with the beaver up, displaying the awful face of the warrior, always 
ready for combat, and careless to guard itself from attack. The large 
contorted bows which she bore were as a grisly crest upon her casque, 
beautiful, doubtless, but majestic and fear-compelling. In her hand 
she carried her armour all complete, a prayer-book, a bible, and a book 
of hymns. These the footman had brought for her to the study door, 
but she had thought fit to enter her husband's room with them in her 
own custody. 

"Well, Mr. Thumble!" she said. 

Mr. Thumble did not answer at once, thinking, probably, that the 
bishop might choose to explain the circumstances. But, neither did 
the bishop say any thing. 

"Well, Mr. Thumble?" she said again; and then she stood 
looking at the man who had failed so disastrously. 

"I have explained to the bishop," said he. " Mr. Crawley has 
been contumacious, very contumacious indeed." 

" But you preached at Hogglestock ?" 

"No, indeed, Mrs. Proudie. Nor would it have been possible, 
unless I had had the police to assist me." 

" Then you should have had the police. I never heard of anything 
so mismanaged in all my life, never in all my life." And she put her 
books down on the study table, and turned herself round from 
Mr. Thumble towards the bishop. "If things go on like this, my 


lord," she said, " your authority in the diocese will very soon be worth 
nothing at all." It was not often that Mrs. Proudie called her husband 
my lord, but when she did do so, it was a sign that terrible times had 
come ; times so terrible that the bishop would know that he must 
either fight or fly. He would almost endure anything rather than 
descend into the arena for the purpose of doing battle with his wife, 
but occasions would come now and again when even the alternative of 
flight was hardly left to him. 

"But, my dear, " began the bishop. 

" Am I to understand that this man has professed himself to be 
altogether indifferent to the bishop's prohibition?" said Mrs. Proudie, 
interrupting her husband and addressing Mr. Thumble. 

" Quite so. He seemed to think that the bishop had no lawful 
power in the matter at all," said Mr. Thumble. 

" Do you hear that, my lord ? " said Mrs. Proudie. 

"Nor have I any," said the bishop, almost weeping as he spoke. 

" No authority in your own diocese !" 

" None to silence a man merely by my own judgment. I thought, 
and still think, that it was for this gentleman's own interest, as well as 
for the credit of the Church, that some provision should be made for 
his duties during his present, present difficulties." 

"Difficulties indeed ! Everybody knows that the man has been a 

" No, my dear ; I do not know it." 

" You never know anything, bishop." 

" I mean to say that I do not know it officially. Of course I have 
heard the sad story ; and, though I hope it may not be the 

" There is no doubt about its truth. All the world knows it. He 
has stolen twenty pounds, and yet he is to be allowed to desecrate the 
Church, and imperil the souls of the people !" The bishop got up from 
his chair and began to walk backwards and forwards through the room 
with short quick steps. " It only wants five days to Christmas Day," 
continued Mrs. Proudie, " and something must be done at once. I say 
nothing as to the propriety or impropriety of his being out on bail, as 
it is no affair of ours. When I heard that he had been bailed by a 
beneficed clergyman of this diocese, of course I knew where to look for 
the man who would act with so much impropriety. Of course I was not 
surprised when I found that that person belonged to Framley. But, as 
I have said before, that is no business of ours. I hope, Mr. Thumble, 
that the bishop will never be found interfering with the ordinary laws 
of the land. I am very sure that he will never do so by my advice. 



But when there comes a question of inhibiting a clergyman who has 
committed himself as this clergyman unfortunately has done, then I 
say that that clergyman ought to be inhibited." The bishop walked up 
and down the room throughout the whole of this speech, but gradually 
his steps became quicker, and his turns became shorter. " And now 
here is Christmas Day upon us, and what is to be done ? " With these 
words Mrs. Proudie finished her speech. 

"Mr. Thumble," said the bishop, " perhaps you had better now 
retire. I am very sorry that you should have had so thankless and 
so disagreeable a task." 

" Why should Mr. Thumble retire ? " asked Mrs. Proudie. 

" I think it better," said the bishop. " Mr. Thumble, good night." 
Then Mr. Thumble did retire, and Mrs. Proudie stood forth in her full 
panoply of armour, silent and awful, with her helmet erect, and vouch- 
safed no recognition whatever of the parting salutation with which 
Mr. Thumble greeted her. " My dear, the truth is, you do not under- 
stand the matter," said the bishop as soon as the door was closed. 
" You do not know how limited is my power." 

'" Bishop, I understand it a great deal better than some people ; 
and I understand also what is due to myself and the manner in which 
I ought to be treated by you in the presence of the subordinate clergy 
of the diocese. I shall not, however, remain here to be insulted 
either in the presence or in the absence of any one." Then the 
conquered amazon collected together the weapons which she had laid 
upon the table, and took her departure with majestic step, and not 
without the clang of arms. The bishop, when he was left alone, enjoyed 
for a few moments the triumph of his victory. 

But then he was left so very much alone ! When he looked round 
about him upon his solitude after the departure of his wife, and 
remembered that he should not see her again till he should encounter 
her on ground that was all her own, he regretted his own success, and 
was tempted to follow her and to apologize. He was unable to do 
anything alone. He would not even know how to get his tea, as the 
very servants would ask questions, if he were to do so unaccustomed a 
thing as to order it to be brought up to him in his solitude. They 
would tell him that Mrs. Proudie was having tea in her little sitting- 
room upstairs, or else that the things were laid in the drawing-room. 
He did wander forth to the latter apartment, hoping that he might find 
his wife there ; but the drawing-room was dark and deserted, and so 
he wandered back again. It was a grand thing certainly to have 
triumphed over his wife, and there was a crumb of comfort in the 


thought that he had vindicated himself before Mr. Thumble ; but the 
general result was not comforting, and he knew from of old how short- 
lived his triumph would be. 

But wretched as he was during that evening he did employ 
himself with some energy. After much thought he resolved that he 
would again write to Mr. Crawley, and summon him to appear at the 
palace. In doing this he would at any rate be doing something. There 
would be action. And though Mr. Crawley would, as he thought, 
decline to obey the order, something would be gained even by that 
disobedience. So he wrote his summons, sitting very comfortless and 
all alone on that Sunday evening, dating his letter, however, for the 
following day : 

" REVEREND SIR, Palace, December 20, 186. 

11 1 HAVE just heard from Mr. Thumble that you have declined 
to accede to the advice which I thought it my duty to tender to you as 
the bishop who has been set over you by the Church, and that you 
yesterday insisted on what you believed to be your right, to administer 
the services in the parish church of Hogglestock. This has occasioned 
me the deepest regret. It is, I think, unavailing that I should further 
write to you my mind upon the subject, as I possess such strong 
evidence that my written word will not be respected by you. I have, 
therefore, no alternative now but to invite you to come to me here ; 
and this I do, hoping that I may induce you to listen to that authority 
which I cannot but suppose you acknowledge to be vested in the office 
which I hold. 

"I shall be glad to see you on to-morrow, Tuesday, as near the 
hour of two as you can make it convenient to yourself to be here, and I 
will take care to order that refreshment shall be provided for yourself 
and your horse. 

" I am, Reverend Sir, 

" &c. &c. &c., 

"Tnos. BARNUM." 

" My dear," he said, when he did again encounter his wife that 
night, " I have written to Mr. Crawley, and I thought I might as well 
bring up the copy of my letter." 

" I wash my hands of the whole affair," said Mrs. Proudie " of 
the whole affair ! " 

" But you will look at the letter ? " 

" Certainly not. Why should I look at the letter ? My word goe$ 


for nothing. I have done what I could, but in vain. Now let us see 
how you will manage it yourself." 

The bishop did not pass a comfortable night ; but in the morning 
his wife did read his letter, and after that things went a little smoother 
with him. She was pleased to say that, considering all things ; seeing, 
as she could not help seeing, thai the matter had been dreadfully 
mismanaged, and that great weakness had been displayed ; seeing that 
thes'e faults had already been committed, perhaps no better step could 
now be taken than that proposed in the letter. 

" I suppose he will not come," said the bishop. 

" I think he will," said Mrs. Proudie, " and I trust that we may be 
able to convince him that obedience will be his best course. He will 
be more humble-minded here than at Hogglestock." In saying this 
the lady showed some knowledge of the general nature of clergymen 
and of the world at large. She understood how much louder a cock 
can crow in its own farmyard than elsewhere, and knew that episcopal 
authority, backed by all the solemn awe of palatial grandeur, goes 
much further than it will do when sent under the folds of an ordinary 
envelope. But though she understood ordinary human nature, it may 
be that she did not understand Mr. Crawley's nature. 

But she was at any rate right in her idea as to Mr. Crawley's 
immediate reply. The palace groom who rode over to Hogglestock 
returned with an immediate answer. 

" MY LOKD " said Mr. Crawley. 

" I will obey your lordship's summons, and, unless impedi- 
ments should arise, I will wait upon your lordship at the hour you 
name to-morrow. I will not trespass on your hospitality. For myself, 
I rarely break bread in any house but my own ; and as to the horse, 
I have none. 

" I have the honour to be, 

"My lord, &c. &c., 


" Of course I shall go," he had said to his wife as soon as he had 
had time to read the letter, and make known to her the contents. 
" I shall go if it be possible for me to get there. I think that I am 
bound to comply with the bishop's wishes in so much as that." 

" But how will you get there, Josiah ? " 

" I will walk, with the Lord's aid." 

Now Hogglestock was fifteen miles from Barchester, and Mr. Crawley 


was, as his wife well knew, by no means fitted in his present state for 
great physical exertion. But from the tone in which he had replied 
to her, she well knew that it would not avail for her to remonstrate at 
the moment. He had walked more than thirty miles in a day since 
they had been living at Hogglestock, and she did not doubt but that it 
might be possible for him to do it again. Any scheme, which she 
might be able to devise for saving him from so terrible a journey in the 
middle of winter, must be pondered over silently, and brought to bear, 
if not slyly, at least deftly, and without discussion. She made no reply 
therefore when he declared that on the following day he would walk to 
Barchester and back, with the Lord's aid ; nor did she see, or ask to 
see the note which he sent to the bishop. When the messenger was 
gone, Mr. Crawley was all alert, looking forward with evident glee to his 
encounter with the bishop, snorting like a racehorse at the expected 
triumph of the coming struggle. And he read much Greek with Jane 
on that afternoon, pouring into her young ears, almost with joyous 
rapture, his appreciation of the glory and the pathos and the humanity, 
as also of the awful tragedy, of the story of (Edipus. His very soul 
was on fire at the idea of clutching the weak bishop in his hand, and 
crushing him with his strong grasp. 

In the afternoon Mrs. Crawley slipped out to a neighbouring 
farmer's wife, and returned in an hour's time with a little story which 
she did not tell with any appearance of eager satisfaction. She had 
learned well what were the little tricks necessary to the carrying of such 
a matter as that which she had now in hand. Mr. Mangle, the farmer, 
as it happened, was going to-morrow morning in his tax-cart as far as 
Framley Mill, and would be delighted if Mr. Crawley would take a seat. 
He must remain at Framley the best part of the afternoon, and hoped 
that Mr. Crawley would take a seat back again. Now Framley Mill 
was only half a mile off the direct road to Barchester, and was almost 
half way from Hogglestock parsonage to the city. This would, at any 
rate, bring the walk within a practicable distance. Mr. Crawley was 
instantly "placed upon his guard, like an animal that sees the bait and 
suspects the trap. Had he been told that farmer Mangle was going all 
the way to Barchester, nothing would have induced him to get into the 
cart. He would have felt sure that fanner Mangle had been persuaded 
to pity him in his poverty and his strait, and he would sooner have 
started to walk to London than have put a foot upon the step of the 
cart. But this lift half way did look to him as though it were really 
fortuitous. His wife could hardly have been cunning enough to per- 
suade the farmer to go to Framley, conscious that the trap would have 


been suspected had the bait been made more full. But I fear, I fear 
the dear good woman had been thus cunning, had understood how far 
the trap might be baited, and had thus succeeded in catching her prey. 

On the following morning he consented to get into farmer Mangle's 
cart, and was driven as far as Framley Mill. " I wouldn't think nowt, 
your reverence, of running you over into Barchester, that I wouldn't. 
The powny is so mortial good," said farmer Mangle in his foolish 

"And how about your business here?" said Mr. Crawley. The 
farmer scratched his head, remembering all Mrs. Crawley's injunctions, 
and awkwardly acknowledged that to be sure his o^wn business with the 
miller was very pressing. Then Mr. Crawley descended, terribly 
suspicious, and went on his journey. 

" Anyways, your reverence will call for me coming back?" said 
farmer Mangle. But Mr. Crawley would make no promise. He bade 
the farmer not wait for him. If they chanced to meet together on the 
road he might get up again. If the man really had business at 
Framley, how could he have offered to go on to Barchester ? Were 
they deceiving him ? The wife of his bosom had deceived him in such 
matters before now. But his trouble in this respect was soon dissipated 
by the pride of his anticipated triumph over the bishop. He took 
great glory from the thought that he would go before the bishop with 
dirty boots, with boots necessarily dirty, with rusty pantaloons, that 
he would be hot and mud- stained with his walk, hungry, and an object 
to be wondered at by all who should see him, because of the misfortunes 
which had been unworthily heaped upon his head ; whereas the bishop 
would be sleek and clean and well-fed, pretty with all the prettinesses 
that are becoming to a bishop's outward man. And he, Mr. Crawley, 
would be humble, whereas the bishop would be very proud. And the 
bishop would be in his own arm-chair, the cock in his own farmyard, 
while he, Mr. Crawley, would be seated afar off, in the cold extremity 
of the room, with nothing of outward circumstances to assist him, a 
man called thither to undergo censure. And yet he would 'take the 
bishop in his grasp and crush him, crush him, crush him ! As he 
thought of this he walked quickly through the mud, and put out his 
long arm and his great hand, far before him out into the air, and, there 
and then, he crushed the bishop in his imagination. Yes, indeed ! 
He thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would ever send for 
him a second time. As all this passed through his mind, he forgot his 
wife's cunning, and farmer Mangle's sin, and for the moment he was 


As he turned a corner round by Lord Lufton's park paling, who 
should he meet but his old friend Mr. Bobarts, the parson of Framley, 
the parson who had committed the sin of being bail for him, the sin, 
that is, according to Mrs. Proudie's view of the matter. He was walking 
with his hand still stretched out, still crushing the bishop, when 
Mr. Kobarts was close upon him. 

' ' What, Crawley ! upon my word I am very glad to see you ; you 
are coming up to me, of course ? " 

" Thank you, Mr. Kobarts ; no, not to-day. The bishop has 
summoned me to his presence, and I am on my road to Barchester. 

" But how are you going ? " 

" I shall walk." 

" Walk to Barchester. Impossible ! " 

" I hope not quite impossible, Mr. Bobarts. I trust I shall get as 
far before two o'clock ; but to do so I must be on my road." Then he 
showed signs of a desire to go on upon his way without further parley. 

"But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is the horse and 
gig doing nothing." 

" Thank you, Mr. Bobarts ; no. I should prefer the walk to-day." 

" And you have walked from Hogglestock ? " 

No ; not so. A neighbour coming hither, who happened to have 
business at your mill, he brought me so far in his cart. The walk 
home will be nothing, nothing. I shall enjoy it. Good morning, 
Mr. Bobarts." 

But Mr. Bobarts thought of the dirty road, and of the bishop's 
presence, and of his own ideas of what would be becoming for a clergy- 
man, and persevered. " You will find the lanes so very muddy ; and 
our bishop, you know, is apt to notice such things. Do be persuaded." 

"Notice what things?" demanded Mr. Crawley, in an indignant 

" He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your shoes were 
when you came to the palace." 

" If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me but my shoes, 
let them say their worst. I shall be very indifferent. I have long 
ceased, Mr. Bobarts, to care much what any man or woman may say about 
my shoes. Good morning." Then he stalked on, clutching and crushing 
in his hand the bishop, and the bishop's wife, and the whole diocese, 
and all the Church of England. Dirty shoes, indeed ! Whose was the 
fault that there were in the church so many feet soiled by unmerited 
poverty, and so many hands soiled by undeserved wealth ? If the 
bishop did not like his shoes, let the bishop dare to tell him so ! So 


lie walked on through the thick of the mud, by no means picking 
his way. 

He walked fast, and he found himself in the close half an hour 
before the time named by the bishop. But on no account would he 
have rung the palace bell one minute before two o'clock. So he walked 
up and down under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled himself, and 
looked up at the pleasant plate-glass in the windows of the house of his 
friend the dean, and told himself how, in their college days, he and the 
dean had been quite equal, quite equal, except that by the voices of 
all qualified judges in the university, he, Mr. Crawley, had been 
acknowledged to be the riper scholar. And now the Mr. Arabin of 
those days was Dean of Barchester, travelling abroad luxuriously at 
this moment for his delight, while he, Crawley, was perpetual curate 
at Hogglestock, and had now walked into Barchester at the command 
of the bishop, because he was suspected of having stolen twenty 
pounds ! When he had fully imbued his mind with the injustice of 
all this, his time was up, and he walked boldly to the bishop's gate, 
and boldly rang the bishop's bell. 



WHO inquires why it is that a little greased flour rubbed in among the 
hair on a footman's head, just one dab here and another there, gives 
such a tone of high life to the family ? And seeing that the thing is so 
easily done, why do not more people attempt it ? The tax on hair- 
powder is but thirteen shillings a year. It may, indeed, be that the 
slightest dab in the world justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat 
three times a day, and wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, however, 
that a bishop's wife may enjoy the privilege without such heavy atten- 
dant expense ; otherwise the man who opened the bishop's door to 
Mr. Crawley would hardly have been so ornamented. 

The man asked for a card. "My name is Mr. Crawley," said our 
friend. " The bishop has desired me to come to hiin at this hour. 
Will you be pleased to tell him that I am here." The man again asked 
for a card. " I am not bound to carry with me my name printed on a 
ticket," said Mr. Crawley. " If you cannot remember it, give me pen 
and paper, and I will write it." The servant, somewhat awed by the 


stranger's manner, brought the pen and paper, and Mr. Crawley wrote 
his name i 


Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock." 

He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to his disappointment, 
was not kept there waiting long. Within three minutes he was ushered 
into the bishop's study, and into the presence of the two great luminaries 
of the diocese. He was at first somewhat disconcerted by finding 
Mrs. Proudie in the room. In the imaginary conversation with the 
bishop which he had been preparing on the road, he had conceived that 
the bishop would be attended by a chaplain, and he had suited his words 
to the joint discomfiture of the bishop and of the lower clergyman ; 
but now the line of his battle must be altered. This was no doubt 
an injury, but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable him to 
surmount it. He had left his hat behind him in the waiting-room, but 
he kept his old short cloak still upon his shoulders ; and when he 
entered the bishop's room his hands and arms were hid beneath it. 
There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It showed at 
least that he had no idea of being asked to shake hands with the 
august persons he might meet. And his head was somewhat bowed, 
though his great, bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that 
neither the bishop nor Mrs. Proudie could drop it from their sight 
during the whole interview. He was a man who when seen could hardly 
be forgotten. 'The deep angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy eyebrows, 
telling tales of frequent anger, of anger frequent but generally silent, 
the repressed indignation of the habitual frown, the long nose and large 
powerful mouth, the deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of 
thought and suffering, all combined to make the appearance of the man 
remarkable, and to describe to the beholders at once his true character. 
No one ever on seeing Mr. Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a 
weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man. 

" You are very punctual, Mr. Crawley," said the bishop. Mr. Crawley 
simply bowed his head, still keeping his hands beneath his cloak. " Will 
you not take a chair nearer to the fire ? " Mr. Crawley had not seated 
himself, but had placed himself in front of a chair at the extreme end of 
the room, resolved that he would not use it unless he were duly 

" Thank you, my lord," he said, "I am warm with walking, and, 
if you please, will avoid the fire." 

" You have not walked, Mr. Crawley ? " 
" Yes, my lord. I have been walking." 


" Not from Hogglestock ! " 

Now this was a matter which Mr. Crawley certainly did not mean 
to discuss with the bishop. It might be well for the bishop to demand 
his presence in the palace, but it could be no part of the bishop's duty 
to inquire how he got there. " That, my lord, is a matter of no 
moment," said he. " I am glad at any rate that I have been enabled 
to obey your lordship's order in coming hither on this morning.' 

Hitherto Mrs. Proudie had not said a word. She stood back in the 
room, near the fire, more backward a good deal than she was 
accustomed to do when clergymen made their ordinary visits. On such 
occasions she would come forward and shake hands with them graciously, 
graciously even, if proudly ; but she had felt that she must do nothing 
of that kind now ; there must be no shaking hands with a man who had 
stolen a cheque for twenty pounds ! It might probably be necessary to 
keep Mr. Crawley at a distance, and therefore she had remained in the 
background. But Mr. Crawley seemed to be disposed to keep himself 
in the background, and therefore she could speak. " I hope your wife 
and children are well, Mr. Crawley," she said. 

" Thank you, madam, my children are well, and Mrs. Crawley 
suffers no special ailment at present." 

"That is much to be thankful for, Mr. Crawley." Whether he 
were or were not thankful for such mercies as these was no business of 
the bishop or of the bishop's wife. That was between him and his 
God. So he would not even bow to this civility, but sat with his head 
erect, and with a great frown on his heavy brow. 

Then the bishop rose from his chair to speak, intending to take up 
a position on the rug. But as he did so Mr. Crawley, who had seated 
himself on an intimation that he was expected to sit down, rose also, 
and the bishop found that he would thus lose his expected vantage. 
" Will you not be seated, Mr. Crawley ? " said the bishop. Mr. Crawley 
smiled, but stood his ground. Then the bishop returned to his arm- 
chair, and Mr. Crawley also sat down again. " Mr. Crawley," began 
the bishop, " this matter which came the other day before the magistrates 
at Silverbridge has been a most unfortunate affair. ' It has given me, 
I can assure you, the most sincere pain." 

Mr. Crawley had made up his mind how far the bishop should be 
allowed to go without a rebuke. He had told himself that it would 
only be natural, aiid would not be unbecoming, that the bishop should 
allude to the meeting of the magistrates and to the alleged theft, and that 
therefore such allusion should be endured with patient humility. And, 
moreover, the more rope he gave the bishop, the more likely the bishop 


would be to entangle himself. It certainly was Mr. Crawley's wish that 
the bishop should entangle himself. He, therefore, replied very meekly, 
" It has been most unfortunate, my lord." 

"I have felt for Mrs. Crawley very deeply," said Mrs. Proudie. 
Mr. Crawley had now made up his mind that as long as it was possible 
he would ignore the presence of Mrs. Proudie altogether ; and, there- 
fore, he made no sign that he had heard the latter remark. 

"It has been most unfortunate," continued the bishop. " I have 
never before had a clergyman in my diocese placed in so distressing a 

" That is a matter of opinion, my lord," said Mr. Crawley, who at 
that moment thought of a crisis which had come in the life of another 
clergyman in the diocese of Barchester, with the circumstances of 
which he had by chance been made acquainted. 

"Exactly," said the bishop. " And I am expressing my opinion." 
Mr. Crawley, who understood fighting, did not think that the time had 
yet come for striking a blow, so he simply bowed again. " A most 
unfortunate position, Mr. Crawley," continued the bishop. " Far be it 
from me to express an opinion upon the matter, which will have to 
come before a jury of your countrymen. It is enough for me to know 
that the magistrates assembled at Silverbridge, gentlemen to whom no 
doubt you must be known, as most of them live in your neighbourhood, 
have heard evidence upon the subject " 

" Most convincing evidence," said Mrs. Proudie, interrupting her 
husband. Mr. Crawley's black brow became a little blacker as he 
heard the word, but still he ignored the woman. He not only did not 
speak, but did not turn his eye upon her. 

" They have heard the evidence on the subject," continued the 
bishop, " and they have thought it proper to refer the decision as to 
your innocence or your guilt to a jury of your countrymen." 

" And they were right," said Mr. Crawley. 

" Very possibly. I don't deny it. Probably," said the bishop, 
whose eloquence was somewhat disturbed by Mr. Crawley's ready 

" Of course they were right," said Mrs. Proudie. 

" At any rate it is so," said the bishop. " You are in the position 
of a man amenable to the criminal laws of the land." 

" There are no criminal laws, my lord," said Mr. Crawley ; "but 
to such laws as there are we are all amenable, your lordship and I 

" But you are so in a very particular way. I do not wish to remind 


you what might be your condition now, but for the interposition of 
private friends." 

" I should be in the condition of a man not guilty before the law; 
guiltless, as far as the law goes, but kept in durance, not for faults 
of his own, but because otherwise, by reason of laches in the police, 
his presence at the assizes might not be ensured. In such a position a 
man's reputation is made to hang for awhile on the trust which some 
friends or neighbours may have in it. I do not say that the test is a 
good one." 

" You would have been put in prison, Mr. Crawley, because the 
magistrates were of opinion that you had taken Mr. Soames's cheque," 
said Mrs. Proudie. On this occasion he did look at her. He turned 
one glance upon her from under his eyebrows, but he did not speak. 

" With all that I have nothing to do," said the bishop. 

"Nothing whatever, my lord," said Mr. Crawley. 

" But, bishop, I think that you have," said Mrs. Proudie. " The 
judgment formed by the magistrates as to the conduct of one of your 
clergymen makes it imperative upon you to act in the matter." 

" Yes, my dear, yes ; I am coming to that. What Mrs. Proudie says 
is perfectly true. I have been constrained most unwillingly to take 
action in this matter. It is undoubtedly the fact that you must at the 
next assizes surrender yourself at the court-house yonder, to be tried 
for this offence against the laws." 

" That is true. If I be alive, my lord, and have strength sufficient, 
I shall be there." 

"You must be there," said Mrs. Proudie. " The police will look 
to that, Mr. Crawley." She was becoming very angiy in that the man 
would not answer her a word. On this occasion again he did not even 
look at her. 

" Yes ; you will be there," said the bishop. " Now that is, to say 
the least of it, an unseemly position for a beneficed clergyman." 

"You said before, my lord, that it was an unfortunate position, and 
the word, methinks, was better chosen." 

"It is very unseemly, very unseemly indeed," said Mrs. Proudie; 
" nothing could possibly be more unseemly. The bishop might very 
properly have used a much stronger word." 

"Under these circumstances," continued the bishop, " looking to 
the welfare of your parish, to the welfare of the diocese, and allow me 
to say, Mr. Crawley, to the welfare of yourself also 

" And especially to the souls of the people," said Mrs. Proudie. 

The bishop shook his head. It is hard to be impressively 


eloquent when one is interrupted at every best turned period, even by a 
supporting voice. "Yes; and looking of course to the religious 
interests of your people, Mr. Crawley, I came to the conclusion that it 
would be expedient that you should cease your ministrations for awhile." 
The bishop paused, and Mr. Crawley bowed his head. "I, therefore, 
sent over to you a gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, Mr. 
Thumble, with a letter from myself, in which I endeavoured to impress 
upon you, without the use of any severe language, what my convictions 

" Severe words are often the best mercy," said Mrs. Proudie. 
Mr. Crawley had raised his hand, with his finger out, preparatory to 
answering the bishop. But as Mrs. Proudie had spoken he dropped 
his finger and was silent. 

" Mr. Thumble brought me back your written reply," continued the 
bishop, "by which I was grieved to find that you were not willing to 
submit yourself to my counsel in the matter." 

" I was most unwilling, my lord. Submission to authority is at 
times a duty; and at times opposition to authority is a duty also." 

" Opposition to just authority cannot be a duty, Mr. Crawley." 

" Opposition to usurped authority is an imperative duty," said 
Mr. Crawley. 

"And who is to be the judge ? " demanded Mrs. Proudie. Then 
there was silence for a while ; when, as Mr. Crawley made no reply, 
the lady repeated her question. " Will you be pleased to answer my 
question, sir ? Who, in such a case, is to be the judge ? " But 
Mr. Crawley did not please to answer her question. " The man is 
obstinate," said Mrs. Proudie. 

" I had better proceed," said the bishop. " Mr. Thumble brought 
me back your reply, which grieved me greatly." 

"It was contumacious and indecent," said Mrs. Proudie. 

The bishop again shook his head and looked so unutterably 
miserable that a smile came across Mr. Crawley's face. After all, 
others besides himself had their troubles and trials. Mrs. Proudie saw 
and understood the smile, and became more angry than ever. She 
drew her chair close to the table, and began to fidget with her fingers 
among the papers. She had never before encountered a clergyman so 
contumacious, so indecent, so unreverend, so upsetting. She had had 
to do with men difficult to manage ; the archdeacon for instance ; but 
the archdeacon had never been so impertinent to her as this man. 
She had quarrelled once openly with a chaplain of her husband's, a 
clergyman whom she herself had introduced to her husband, and who 


had treated her very badly ; but not so badly, not with such unscru- 
pulous violence, as she was now encountering from this ill-clothed 
beggarly man, this perpetual curate, with his dirty broken boots, this 
already half- convicted thief! Such was her idea -of Mr. Crawley's 
conduct to her, while she was fingering the papers, simply because 
Mr. Crawley would not speak to her. 

"I forget where I was," said the bishop. " Oh. Mr. Thurnble 
came back, and I received your letter ; of course I received it. And I 
was surprised to learn from that, that in spite of what had occurred at 
Silverbridge, you were still anxious to continue the usual Sunday 
ministrations in your church." 

"I was determined that I would do my duty at Hogglestock, as 
long as I might be left there to do it," said Mr. Crawley. 

" Duty ! " said Mrs Proudie. 

"Just a moment, my dear," said the bishop. "When Sunday 
came, I had no alternative but to send Mr. Thumble over again to 
Hogglestock. It occurred to us, to me and Mrs. Proudie, 

" I will tell Mr. Crawley just now what has occurred to me, ' said 
Mrs. Proudie. 

" Yes ; just so. And I am sure that he will take it in good part. 
It occurred to me, Mr. Crawley, that your first letter might have been 
written in haste." 

" It was written in haste, my lord; your messenger was waiting." 

" Yes ; just so. Well ; so I sent him again, hoping that he might 
be accepted as a messenger of peace. It was a most disagreeable 
mission for any gentleman, Mr. Crawley." 

" Most disagreeable, my lord." 

"And you refused him permission to obey the instructions which I 
had given him ! You would not let him read from your desk, or 
preach from your pulpit." 

"Had I been Mr. Thumble," said Mrs. Proudie, "I would have 
read from that desk and I would have preached from that pulpit." 

Mr. Crawley waited a moment, thinking that the bishop might, 
perhaps speak again ; but as he did not, but sat expectant as though he 
had finished his discourse, and now expected a reply, Mr. Crawley got 
up from his seat and drew near to the table. " My lord," he began, " it 
has all been just as you have said. I did answer your first letter in haste." 

" The more shame for you," said Mrs. Proudie. 

"And therefore, for aught I know, my letter to your lordship may 
be so worded as to need some apology." 

" Of course it needs an apology," said Mrs Proudie. 


"But for the matter of it, my lord, no apology can be made, nor 
is any needed. I did refuse to your messenger permission to perform 
the services of my church, and if you send' twenty more, I shall 
refuse them all, till the time may come when it will be your lordship's 
duty, in accordance with the laws of the Church, as borne out and 
backed by the laws of the land, to provide during my constrained 
absence for the spiritual wants of those poor people at Hogglestock." 

" Poor people, indeed," said Mrs. Proudie. " Poor wretches ! " 

" And, my lord, it may well be, that it shall soon be your lordship's 
duty to take due and legal steps for depriving me of my benefice at 
Hogglestock; nay, probably, for silencing me altogether as to the 
exercise of my sacred profession ! " 

" Of course it will, sir. Your gown will be taken from you," 
said Mrs. Proudie. The bishop was looking with all his eyes up at 
the great forehead and great eyebrows of the man, and was so 
fascinated by the power that was exercised over him by the other 
man's strength that he hardly now noticed his wife. 

"It may well be so," continued Mr. Crawley. " The circumstances 
are strong against me ; and, though your lordship has altogether 
misunderstood the nature of the duty performed by the magistrates in 
sending my case for trial, although, as it seems to me, you have 
come to conclusions in this matter in ignorance of the very theory of 
our laws, " 

"Sir!" said Mrs. Proudie. 

"Yet I can foresee the probability that a jury may discover me 
to have been guilty of theft." 

" Of course the jury will do so," said Mrs. Proudie. 

" Should such verdict be given, then, my lord, your interference 
will be legal, proper, and necessary. And you will find that, even if it be 
within my power to oppose obstacles to your lordship's authority, I will 
opposeno such obstacle. There is, I believe, no appeal in criminal cases." 

"^s["one at all," said Mrs. Proudie. "There is no appeal against 
your bishop. You should have learned that before." 

" But till that time shall come, my lord, I shall hold my own at 
Hogglestock as you hold your own here at Barchester. Nor have you 
more power to turn me out of my pulpit by your mere voice, than I 
have to turn you out of your throne by mine. If you doubt me, my 
lord, your lordship's eccclesiastical court is open to you. Try it there." 

" You defy us, then ?" said Mrs. Proudie. 

" My lord, I grant your authority as bishop to be great, but even a 
bishop can only act as the law allows him." 



" G-od forbid that I should do more," said the bishop. 

" Sir, you will find that your wicked threats will fall back upon your 
own head," said Mrs. Proudie. 

" Peace, woman," Mr. Crawley said, addressing her at last. The 
bishop jumped out of his chair at hearing the wife of his bosom called a 
woman. But he jumped rather in admiration than in anger. He had 
already begun to perceive that Mr. Crawley was a man who had better 
be left to take care of the souls at Hogglestock, at any rate till the trial 
should come on. 

" Woman ! " said Mrs. Proudie, rising to her feet as though she 
really intended some personal encounter. 

" Madam," said Mr. Crawley, " you should not interfere in these 
matters. You simply debase your husband's high office. The distaff 
were more fitting for you. My lord, good morning." And before either 
of them could speak again, he was out of the room, and through the 
hall, and beyond the gate, and standing beneath the towers of the 
cathedral. Yes, he had, he thought, in truth crushed the bishop. He 
had succeeded in crumpling the bishop up within the clutch of his fist. 

He started in a spirit of triumph to walk back on his road towards 
Hogglestock. He did not think of the long distance before him for the 
first hour of his journey. He had had his victory, and the remem- 
brance of that braced his nerves and gave elasticity to his sinews, and 
he went stalking along the road with rapid strides, muttering to himself 
from time to time as he went along some word about Mrs. Proudie and 
her distaff. Mr. Thumble would not, he thought, come to him again, 
not, at any rate, till the assizes were drawing near. And he had resolved 
what he would do then. When the day of his trial was near, he would 
himself write to the bishop, and beg that provision might be made for 
his church, in the event of the verdict going against him. His friend, 
Dean Arabin, was to be home before that time, and the idea had 
occurred to him of asking the dean to see to this ; but now the other 
would be the more independent course, and the better. And there was 
a matter as to which he was not altogether well pleased with the dean, 
although he was so conscious of his own peculiarities as to know that 
he could hardly trust himself for a judgment. But, at any rate, he would 
apply to the bishop, to the bishop whom he had just left prostrate 
in his palace, when the time of his trial should be close at hand. 

Full of such thoughts as these he went along almost gaily, nor felt 
the fatigue of the road till he had covered the first five miles out of 
Barchester. It was nearly four o'clock, and the thick gloom of the 
winter evening was making itself felt. And then he began to be 


fatigued. He had not as yet eaten since he had left his home in the 
morning, and he now pulled a crust out of his pocket and leaned 
against a gate as he crunched it. There were still ten miles before 
him, and he knew that such an addition to the work he had already 
done would task him very severely. Farmer Mangle had told him that 
he would not leave Framley Mill till five, and he had got time to reach 
Framley Mill by that time. But he had said that he would not return 
to Framley Mill, and he remembered his suspicion that his wife and 
farmer Mangle between them had cozened him. No ; he would 
persevere and walk, walk, though he should drop upon the road. He 
was now nearer fifty than forty years of age, and hardships as well as 
time had told upon him. He knew that though his strength was good 
for the commencement of a hard day's work, it would not hold out for 
him as it used to do. He knew that the last four miles in the dark 
night would be very sad with him. But still he persevered, endea- 
vouring, as he went, to cherish himself with the remembrance of his 

He passed the turning going down to Framley with courage, but 
when he came to the further turning, by which the cart would return 
from Framley to the Hogglestock road, he looked wistfully down the 
road for farmer Mangle. But farmer Mangle was still at the mill, 
waiting in expectation that Mi-. Crawley might come to him. But the 
poor traveller paused here barely for a minute, and then went on, 
stumbling through the mud, striking his ill-covered feet against the 
rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness, almost tottering at 
times, and calculating whether his remaining strength would serve to 
carry him home. He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife 
before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to his own door. 

" Oh, mamma, here is papa ! " 

" But where is the cart ? I did not hear the wheels," said 
Mrs. Crawley. 

" Oh, mamma, I think papa is ill." Then the wife took her 
drooping husband by both arms and strove to look him in the face. 
" He has walked all the way, and he is ill," said Jane. 

" No, my dear, I am very tired, but not ill. Let me sit down, and 
give me some bread and tea, and I shall recover myself." Then 
Mrs. Crawley, from some secret hoard, got him a small modicum of 
spirits, and gave him meat and tea, and he was docile ; and, obeying 
her behests, allowed himself to be taken to his bed. 

" I do not think the bishop will send for me again," he said, as she 
tucked the clothes around him. 


WHEN Christmas morning came no emissary from the bishop appeared 
at Hogglestock to interfere with the ordinary performance of the day's 
services. " I think we need fear no further disturbance," Mr. Crawley 
said to his wife, and there was no further disturbance. 

On the day after his walk from Framley to Barchester, and from 
Barchester back to Hogglestock, Mr. Crawley had risen not much the 
worse for his labour, and had gradually given to his wife a full account 
of what had taken place. " A poor weak man," he said, speaking of 
the bishop. " A poor weak creature, and much to be pitied." 

"I have always heard that she is a violent woman." 

" Very violent, and very ignorant ; and most intrusive withal." 

" And you did not answer her a word ? " 

11 At last my forbearance with her broke down, and I bade her mind 
her distaff." 

" What ; really ? Did you say those words to her ? " 

" Nay ; as for my exact words I cannot remember them. I was 
thinking more of the words with which it might be fitting that I should 
answer the bishop. But I certainly told her that she had better mind 
her distaff." 

" And how did she behave then ?" 

" I did not wait to see. The bishop had spoken, and I had replied ; 
and why should I tarry to behold the woman's violence ? I had told 
him that he was wrong in law, and that I at least would not submit to 
usurped authority. There was nothing to keep me longer, and so I 
went without much ceremony of leave-taking. There had been little 
ceremony of greeting on their part, and there was less in the making of 
adieux on mine. They had told me that I was a thief " 

" No, Josiah, surely not so? They did not use that very word?" 

"I say they did; they did use the very word. But stop. I am 
wrong. I wrong his lordship, and I crave pardon for having done so. 
If my memory serve me, no expression so harsh escaped from the 
bishop's mouth. He gave me, indeed, to understand more than once 
that the action taken by the magistrates was tantamount to a con- 
viction, and that I must be guilty because they had decided that there 


was evidence sufficient to justify a trial. But all that arose from my 
lord's ignorance of the administration of the laws of his country. He 
was very ignorant, puzzle-pated, as you may call it, led by the nose 
by his wife, weak as water, timid, and vacillating. But he did not 
wish, I think, to be insolent. It was Mrs. Proudie who told me to 
my face that I was a thief." 

" May she be punished for the cruel word ! " said Mrs. Crawley. 
" May the remembrance that she has spoken it come, some day, heavily 
upon her heart !" 

" * Vengeance is mine. I will repay,' saith the Lord," answered 
Mr. Crawley. " We may safely leave all that alone, and rid our minds 
of such wishes, if it be possible. It is well, I think, that violent 
offences, when committed, should be met by instant rebuke. To turn 
the other cheek instantly to the smiter can hardly be suitable in these 
days, when the hands of so many are raised to strike. But the return 
blow should be given only while the smart remains. She hurt me 
then ; but what is it to me now, that she called me a thief to my face ? 
Do I not 'know that, all the country round, men and women are calling 
me the same behind my back ? " 

" No, Josiah, you do not know that. They say that the thing is 
very strange, so strange that it requires a trial ; but no one thinks you 
have taken that which was not your own." 

" I think I did. I myself think I took that which was not my 
own. My poor head suffers so ; so many grievous thoughts distract 
me, that I am like a child, and know not what I do." As he spoke 
thus he put both hands up to his head, leaning forward as though in 
anxious thought, as though he were striving to bring his mind to bear 
with accuracy upon past events. " It could not have been mine, and 

yet " Then he sat silent, and made no effort to continue his 


"And yet?" said his wife, encouraging him to proceed. If she 
could only learn the real truth, she thought that she might perhaps yet 
save him, with assistance from their friends. 

" When I said that I had gotten it from that man I must have been 

" From which man, love ? " 

"From the man Soames, he who accuses me. And yet, as the 
Lord hears me, I thought so then. The truth is, that there are times 
when I am not sane. I am not a thief, not before God ; but I am 
mad at times." These last words he spoke very slowly, in a 
whisper, without any excitement, indeed with a composure which 


was horrible to witness. And what he said was the more terrible 
because she was so well convinced of the truth of his words. Of course 
he was no thief. She wanted no one to tell her that. As he himself 
had expressed it, he was no thief before God, however the money 
might have come into his possession. That there were times when his 
reason, once so fine and clear, could not act, could not be trusted to 
guide him right, she had gradually come to know with fear and 
trembling. But he himself had never before hinted his own conscious- 
ness of this calamity. Indeed he had been so unwilling to speak of 
himself and of his own state, that she had been unable even to ask him 
a question about the money, lest he should suspect that she suspected 
him. Now he was speaking, but speaking with such heartrending 
sadness that she could hardly urge him to go on. 

" You have sometimes been ill, Josiah, as any of us may be," she 
said, " and that has been the cause." 

" There are different kinds of sickness. There is sickness of the 
body, and sickness of the heart, and sickness of the spirit ; and then 
there is sickness of the mind, the worst of all." 

" With you, Josiah, it has chiefly been the first." 

" With me, Mary, it has been all of them, every one ! My spirit is 
broken, and my mind has not been able to keep its even tenour amidst 
the ruins. But I will strive. I will strive. I will strive still. And if 
God helps me, I will prevail." Then he took up his hat and cloak, 
and went forth among the lanes ; and on this occasion his wife was glad 
that he should go alone. 

This occurred a day or two before Christmas, and Mrs. Crawley 
during those days said nothing more to her husband on the subject 
which he had so unexpectedly discussed. She asked him no questions 
about the money, or as to the possibility of his exercising his memory, 
nor did she counsel him to plead that the false excuses given by him 
for his possession of the cheque had been occasioned by the sad slip 
to which sorrow had in those days subjected Jris memory and his 
intellect. But the matter had always been on her mind. Might it not 
be her paramount duty to do something of this at the present moment ? 
Might it not be that his acquittal or conviction would depend on what 
she might now learn from him ? It was clear to her that he was 
brighter in spirit since his encounter with the Proudies than he had 
ever been since the accusation had been first made against him. And 
she knew well that his present mood would not be of long continuance. 
He would fall again into his moody silent ways, and then the chance 
of learning aught from him would be past, and perhaps, for ever. 


He performed the Christmas services with nothing of special 
despondency in his tone or manner, and his wife thought that she had 
never heard him give the sacrament with more impressive dignity. 
After the service he stood awhile at the churchyard gate, and exchanged 
a word of courtesy as to the season with such of the families of the 
farmers as had stayed for the Lord's supper. 

" I waited at Framley for your reverence till arter six, so I did," 
said farmer Mangle. 

" I kept the road, and walked the whole way," said Mr. Crawley. 
" I think I told you that I should not return to the mill. But I am not 
the less obliged by your great kindness." 

" Say nowt o' that," said the farmer. "No doubt I had business 
at the mill, lots to do at the mill." Nor did he think that the fib he 
was telling was at all incompatible with the Holy Sacrament in which 
he had just taken a part. 

The Christmas dinner at the parsonage was not a repast that did 
much honour to the season, but it was a better dinner than the inhabi- 
tants of that house usually saw on the board before them. There was 
roast pork and mince-pies, and a bottle of wine. As Mrs. Crawley 
with her own hand put the meat upon the table, and then, as was 
her custom in their house, proceeded to cut it up, she looked at her 
husband's face to see whether he was scrutinizing the food with painful 
eye. It was better that she should tell the truth at once than that she 
should be made to tell it, in answer to a question. Everything on the 
table, except the bread and potatoes, had come in a basket from 
Framley Court. Pork had been sent instead of beef, because people in 
the country, when they kill their pigs, do sometimes give each other 
pork, but do not-<kxchange joints of beef, when they slay their oxen. 
All this was understood by Mrs. Crawley, but she almost wished that 
beef had been sent, because beef would have attracted less attention. 
He said, however, nothing to the meat ; but when his wife proposed to 
him that he should eat a mince-pie he resented it. " The bare food," 
said he, " is bitter enough, coming, as it does ; but that would choke 
me." She did not press it, but eat one herself, as otherwise her girl 
would have been forced also to refuse the dainty. 

That evening, as soon as Jane was in bed, she resolved to ask him 
some further questions. " You will have a lawyer, Josiah, will you 
not ? " she said. 

" Why should I have a lawyer ? " 

"Because he will know what questions to ask, and how questions 
on the other side should be answered." 



" I have no questions to ask, and there is only one way in which 
questions should be answered. I have no money to pay a lawyer." 

" But, Josiah, in such a case as this, where your honour, and our 
very life depend upon it " 

" Depend on what ? " 

" On your acquittal." 

" I shall not be acquitted. It is as well to look it in the face at 
once. Lawyer, or no lawyer, they will say that I took the money. 
Were I upon the jury, trying the case myself, knowing all that I know 
now," and as he said this he struck forth with his hands into the air, 
" I think that I should say so myself. A lawyer will do no good. 
It is here. It is here." And again he put his hands up to his head. 

So far she had been successful. At this moment it had in truth 
been her object to induce him to speak of his own memory, and not of 
the aid that a lawyer might give. The proposition of the lawyer had 
been brought in to introduce the subject. 

"But, Josiah, " 


It was very hard for her to speak. She could not bear to torment 
him by any allusion to his own deficiencies. She could not endure to 
make him think that she suspected him of any frailty either in intellect 
or thought. Wifelike, she desired to worship him, and that he should 
know that she worshipped him. But if a word might save him ! 
" Josiah, where did it come from ? " 

" Yes," said he; "yes ; that is the question. Where did it come 
from ?" and he turned sharp upon her, looking at her with all the 
power of his eyes. "It is because I cannot tell you where it came 
from that I ought to be, either in Bedlam, as a madman, or in the 
county gaol as a thief." The words were so dreadful to her that she 
could not utter at the moment another syllable. " How is a man to 
think himself fit for a man's work, when he cannot answer his wife 
such a plain question as that ? " Then he paused again. " They 
should take me to Bedlam at once, at once, at once. That would 
not disgrace the children as the gaol will do. 1 ' 

Mrs. Crawley could ask no further questions on that evening. 



T had "been suggested to Mr. 
Robarts, the parson of Framley, 
that he should endeavour to 
induce his old acquaintance, Mr. 
Crawley, to employ a lawyer to 
defend him at his trial, and 
Mr. Robarts had not forgotten 
the commission which he had 
undertaken. But there were 
difficulties in the matter of 
which he was well aware. In 
the first place Mr. Crawley 
was a man whom it had not at 
any time been easy to advise 
on matters private to himself ; 
and, in the next place, this was 
a matter on which it was very 
hard to speak to the man im- 
plicated, let him be who he would. Mr. Robarts had come round to 
the generally accepted idea that Mr. Crawley had obtained possession 
of the cheque illegally, acquitting his friend in his own mind of theft, 
simply by supposing that he was wool-gathering when the cheque came 
in his way. But in speaking to Mr. Crawley, it would be necessary, 
so he thought, to pretend a conviction that Mr. Crawley was as 
innocent in fact as in intention. 

He had almost made up his mind to dash at the subject when he 
met Mr. Crawley walking through Framley to Barchester, but he had 
abstained, chiefly because Mr. Crawley had been too quick for him, and 
had got away. After that he resolved that it would be almost useless 
for him to go to work unless he should be provided with a lawyer ready 
and willing to undertake the task ; and as he was not so provided at 
present, he made up his mind that he would go into Silverbridge, and 
see Mr. Walker, the attorney there. Mr. Walker always advised 
everybody in those parts about everything, and would be sure to know 



what would be the proper thing to be done in this case. So Mr. Robarts 
got into his gig, and drove himself into Silverbridge, passing very close 
to Mr. Crawley's house on his road. He drove at once to Mr. Walker's 
office, and on arriving there found that the attorney was not at that 
moment within. But Mr. Winthrop was within. Would Mr. Eobarts 
see Mr. Winthrop ? Now, seeing Mr. Winthrop was a very different 
thing from seeing Mr. Walker, although the two gentlemen were 
partners. But still Mr. Robarts said that he would see Mr. Winthrop. 
Perhaps Mr. Walker might return while he was there. 

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Robarts?" asked 
Mr. Winthrop. Mr. Robarts said that he had wished to see Mr. Walker 
about that poor fellow Crawley. " Ah, yes ; very sad case ! So much 
sadder being a clergyman, Mr. Robarts. We are really quite sorry for 
him ; we are indeed. We wouldn't have touched the case ourselves if 
we could have helped ourselves. We wouldn't indeed. But we are 
obliged to take all that business here. At any rate he'll get nothing 
but fair usage from us." 

" I am sure of that. You don't know whether he has employed 
any lawyer as yet to defend him ? " 

" I can't say. We don't know, you know. I should say he had, 
probably some Barchester attorney. Borleys and Bonstock in Barchester 
are very good people, very good people indeed; for that sort of 
business I mean, Mr. Robarts. I don't suppose they have much county 
property in their hands." 

Mr. Robarts knew that Mr. Winthrop was a fool, and that he could 
get no useful advice from him. So he suggested that he would take 
his gig down to the inn, and call back again before long. " You'll find 
that Walker knows no more than I do about it," said Mr. Winthrop, 
" but of course he'll be glad to see you if he happens to come in." So 
Mr. Robarts went to the inn, put up his horse, and then, as he sauntered 
back up the street, met Mr. Walker coming out of the private door of 
his house. 

"I've been at home all the morning," he said, " but I've had a 
stiff job of work on hand, and told them to say in the office that I was 
not in. Seen Winthrop, have you ? I don't suppose he did know that 
I was here. The clerks often know more than the partners. About 
Mr. Crawley is it ? Come into my dining-room, Mr. Robarts, where we 
shall be alone. Yes ; it is a bad case ; a very bad case. The pity is 
that anybody should ever have said anything about it. Lord bless me, 
if I'd been Soames I'd have let him have the twenty pounds. Lord 
Lufton would never have allowed Soames to lose it," 


" But Soames wanted to find out the truth." 

"Yes; that was just it. Soames couldn't bear to think that he 
should be left in the dark, and then, when the poor man said that 
fcijoames had paid the cheque to him in the way of business, it was 
not odd that Soames' back should have been up, was it ? But, 
Mr. Kobarts, I should have thought a deal about it before I should have 
brought such a man as Mr. Crawley before a bench of magistrates on 
that charge." 

" But between you and me, Mr. Walker, did he steal the money ? " 

" Well, Mr. Robarts, you know how I'm placed." 

" Mr. Crawley is my friend, and of course I want to assist him. 
I was under a great obligation to Mr. Crawley once, and I wish to 
befriend him, whether he took the money or not. But I could act so 
much better if I felt sure one way or the other." 

" If you ask me, I think he did take it." 

"What! stole it?" 

" I think he knew it was not his own when he took it. You see I 
don't think he meant to use it when he took it. He perhaps had 
some queer idea that Soames had been hard on him, or his lordship, 
and that the money was fairly his due. Then he kept the cheque by 
him till he was absolutely badgered out of his life by the butcher up 
the street there. That was about the long and the short of it, 
Mr. Robarts." 

" I suppose so. And now what had he better do ? " 

" Well ; if you ask me, He is in very bad health, isn't he ? " 

" No ; I should say not. He walked to Barchester and back the 
other day." 

" Did he ? But he's very queer, isn't he ? " 

" Very odd-mannered indeed." 

" And does and says all manner of odd things ? " 

" I think you'd find the bishop would say so after that interview." 

" Well ; if it would do any good, you might have the bishop 

" Examined for what, Mr. Walker ? " 

" If you could show, you know, that Crawley has got a bee in his 
bonnet; that the mens sana is not there, in short; I think you 
might manage to have the trial postponed." 

" But then somebody must take charge of his living." 

" You parsons could manage that among you ; you and the dean 
and the archdeacon. The archdeacon has always got half-a-dozen 
curates about somewhere. And then, after the assizes, Mr. Crawley 



might come to his senses ; and I think, mind it's only an idea, but I 
think the committal might be quashed. It would have been temporary 
insanity, and, though mind I don't give my word for it, I think he 
might go on and keep his living. I think so, Mr. Bobarts." 

" That has never occurred to me." 

" No ; I daresay not. You see the difficulty is this. He's so 
stiff-necked, will do nothing himself. Well, that will do for one 
proof of temporary insanity. The real truth is, Mr. Robarts, he is as 
mad as a hatter." 

" Upon my word I've often thought so." 

"And you wouldn't mind saying so in evidence, would you? 
Well, you see, there is no helping such a man in any other way. He 
won't even employ a lawyer to defend him." 

" That was what I had come to you about." 

" I'm told he won't. Now a man must be mad who won't employ a 
lawyer when he wants one. You see, the point we should gain would 
be this, if we tried to get him through as being a little touched in the 
upper story, whatever we could do for him, we could do against his 
own will. The more he opposed us the stronger our case would be. He 
would swear he was not mad at all, and we should say that that was 
the greatest sign of his madness. But when I say we, of course I 
mean you. I must not appear in it." 

"I wish you could, Mr. Walker." 

" Of course I can't ; but that won't make any difference/' 

" I suppose he must have a lawyer ? " 

" Yes, he must have a lawyer ; or rather his friends must." 

" And who should employ him, ostensibly ? " 

" Ah ; there's the difficulty. His wife wouldn't do it, I suppose ? 
She couldn't do him a better turn." 

"He would never forgive her. And she would never consent to 
aci> against him." 

" Could you interfere ? " 

" If necessary, I will ; but I hardly know him well enough." 

" Has he no father or mother, or uncles or aunts ? He must have 
somebody belonging to him," said Mr. Walker. 

Then it occurred to Mr. Robarts that Dean Arabin would be the 
proper person to interfere. Dean Arabin and Mr. Crawley had been 
intimate friends in early life, and Dean Arabin knew more of nim than 
did any man, at least in those parts. All this Mr. Robarts explained to 
Mr. Walker, and Mr. Walker agreed with him that the services of Dean 
Arabin should if possible be obtained. Mr. Robarts would at once write 


to Dean Arabin and explain at length all the circumstances of the case. 
" The worst of it is, he will hardly be home in time," said Mr. Walker. 
" Perhaps he would come a little sooner if you were to press it ? " 

"But we could act in his name in his absence, I suppose? of 
course with his authority?" 

"I wish he could be here a month before the assizes, Mr. Eobarts. 
It would be better." 

"And in the meantime shall I say anything to Mr. Crawley, 
myself, about employing a lawyer ? " 

"I think I would. If he turns upon you, as like enough he may, 
and abuses you, that will help us in one way. If he should consent, 
and perhaps he may, that would help us in the other way. I'm told 
he's been over and upset the whole coach at the palace." 

" I shouldn't think the bishop got much out of him," said the parson. 

" I don't like Crawley the less for speaking his mind free to the 
bishop," said the attorney, laughing. "And he'll speak it free to you 
too, Mr. Robarts." 

" He won't break any of my bones. Tell me, Mr. Walker, what 
lawyer shall I name to him ? " 

" You can't have a better man than Mr. Mason, up the street there." 

" Winthrop proposed Borleys at Barchester." 

"No, no, no. Borleys and Bonstock are capital people to push a 
fellow through on a charge of horse-stealing, or to squeeze a man for a 
little money ; but they are not the people for Mr. Crawley in such a 
case as this. Mason is a better man ; and then Mason and I know each 
other." In saying which Mr. Walker winked. 

There was then a discussion between them whether Mr. Robarts 
should go at once to Mr. Mason ; but it was decided at last that he should 
see Mr. Crawley and also write to the dean before he did so. The dean 
might wish to employ his own lawyer, and if so the double expense 
should be avoided. " Always remember, Mr. Robarts, that when you 
go into an attorney's office door, you will have to pay for it, first or 
last. In here, you see, the dingy old mahogany, bare as it is, makes 
you safe. Or else it's the salt-cellar, which will not allow itself to 
be polluted by six-and-eightpenny considerations. But there is the 
other kind of tax to be paid. You must go, up and see Mrs. Walker, or 
you won't have her help in this matter." 

Mr. Walker returned to his work, either to some private den within 
his house, or to his office, and Mr. Robarts was taken upstairs to the 
drawing-room. There he found Mrs. Walker and her daughter, and 
Miss Anne Prettyman, who had just looked in, full of the story of 


Mr. Crawley's walk to Barchester. Mr. Thumble had seen one of 
Dr. Tempest's curates, and had told the whole story he, Mr. Thumble, 
having heard Mrs. Proudie's version of what had occurred, and having, 
of course, drawn his own deductions from her premises. And it 
seemed that Mr. Crawley had been watched as he passed through the 
close out of Barchester. A minor canon had seen him, and had 
declared that he was going at the rate of a hunt, swinging his arms on 
high and speaking very loud, though, as the minor canon said with 
regret, the words were hardly audible. But there had been no doubt 
as to the man. Mr. Crawley's old hat, and short rusty cloak, and 
dirty boots, had been duly observed and chronicled by the minor canon ; 
and Mr. Thumble had been enabled to put together a not altogether 
false picture of what had occurred. As soon as the greetings between 
Mr. Eobarts and the ladies had been made, Miss Anne Prettyman broke 
out again, just where she had left off when Mr. Robarts came in. 
" They say that Mrs. Proudie declared that she will have him sent 
to Botany Bay ! " 

''Luckily Mrs. Proudie won't have much to do in the matter," 
said Miss Walker, who ranged herself, as to church matters, in ranks 
altogether opposed to those commanded by Mrs. Proudie. 

" She will have nothing to do with it, my dear," said Mrs. Walker ; 
" and I daresay Mrs. Proudie was not foolish enough to say anything 
of the kind." 

" Mamma, she would be fool enough to say anything. Would she 
not, Mr. Robarts?" 

" You forget, Miss Walker, that Mrs. Proudie is in authority over 

" So she is, for the matter of that," said the young lady ; " but I 
know very well what you all think of her, and say of her too, at 
Framley. Your friend, Lady Lufton, loves her dearly. I wish I could 
have been hidden behind a curtain in the palace, to hear what 
Mr. Crawley said to her." 

" Mr. Smillie declares," said Miss Anne Prettyman, " that the bishop 
has been ill ever since. Mr. Smillie went over to his mother's at 
Barchester for Christmas, and took part of the cathedral duty, and we 
had Mr. Spooner over here in his place. So Mr. Smillie of course 
heard all about it. Only fancy, poor Mr. Crawley walking all the way 
from Hogglestock to Barchester and back ; and I am told he hardly 
had a shoe to his foot ! Is it not a shame, Mr. Robarts ? " 

" I don't think it was quite so bad as you say, Miss Prettyman ; 
but, upon the whole, I do think it is a shame. But what can we do ? " 


"I suppose there are tithes at Hogglestock. Why are they not 
given up to the church, as they ought to be ?" 

" My dear Miss Prettyman, that is a very large subject, and I am 
afraid it cannot be settled in time to relieve our poor friend from his 
distress." Then Mr. Robarts escaped from the ladies in Mr. Walker's 
house, who, as it seemed to him, were touching upon dangerous 
ground, and went back to the yard of the George Inn for his gig, 
the George and Vulture it was properly called, and was the house in 
which the magistrates had sat when they committed Mr. Crawley for 

"Footed it every inch of the way, blowed if he didn't," the ostler 
was saying to a gentleman's groom, whom Mr. Robarts recognized to 
be the servant of his friend, Major Grantly; and Mr. Robarts knew 
that they also were talking about Mr. Crawley. Everybody in the 
county was talking about Mr. Crawley. At home, at Framley, there 
was no other subject of discourse. Lady Luffcon, the dowager, was 
full of it, being firmly convinced that Mr. Crawley was innocent, 
because the bishop was supposed to regard him as guilty. There had 
been a family conclave held at Framley Court over that basket of 
provisions which had been sent for the Christmas cheer of the 
Hogglestock parsonage, each of the three ladies, the two Lady Luffcons 
and Mrs. Robarts, having special views of their own. How the pork 
had been substituted for the beef by old Lady Lufton, young Lady 
Lufton thinking that after all the beef would be less dangerous, and 
how a small turkey had been rashly suggested by Mrs. Robarts, and 
how certain small articles had been inserted in the bottom of the 
basket which Mrs. Crawley had never shewn to her husband, need not 
here be told at length. But Mr. Robarts, as he heard the two grooms 
talking about Mr. Crawley, began to feel that Mr. Crawley had achieved 
at least celebrity. 

The groom touched his hat as Mr. Robarts walked up. " Has the 
major returned home yet?" Mr. Robarts asked. The groom said that 
his master was still at Plumstead, and that he was to go over to 
Plumstead to fetch the major and Miss Edith in a day or two. Then 
Mr. Robarts got into his gig, and as he drove out of the yard he heard 
the words of the men as they returned to the same subject. " Footed 
it all the way," said one. "And yet he's a gen'leman, too," said the 
other. Mr. Robarts thought of this as he drove on, intending to call 
at Hogglestock on that very day on his way home. It was undoubtedly 
the fact that Mr. Crawley was recognized to be a gentleman by all who 
knew him, high or low, rich or poor, by those who thought well of him 


and by those who thought ill. These grooms, who had been telling 
each other that this parson, who was to be tried as a thief, had been 
constrained to walk from Hogglestock to Barchester and back, because 
he could not afford to travel in any other way, and that his boots were 
cracked and his clothes ragged, had still known him to be a gentleman ! 
Nobody doubted it; not even they who thought he had stolen the 
money. Mr. Robarts himself was certain of it, and told himself that 
he knew it by evidences which his own education made clear to him. 
But how was it that the grooms knew it ? For my part I think that 
there are no better judges of the article than the grooms. 

Thinking still of all which he had heard, Mr. Robarts found himself 
at Mr. Crawley's gate at Hogglestock. 



MK. ROBARTS was not altogether easy in his mind as he approached 
Mr. Crawley's house. He was aware that the task before him was a 
very difficult one, and he had not confidence in himself, that he was 
exactly the man fitted for the performance of such a task. He was a 
little afraid of Mr. Crawley, acknowledging tacitly to himself that the 
man had a power of ascendancy with which he would hardly be able 
to cope successfully. In old days he had once been rebuked by 
Mr. Crawley, and had been cowed by the rebuke ; and though there 
was no touch of rancour in his heart on this account, no slightest 
remaining venom, but rather increased respect and friendship, still 
he was unable to overcome the remembrance of the scene in which the 
perpetual curate of Hogglestock had undoubtedly had the mastery of him. 
So, when two dogs have fought and one has conquered, the conquered 
dog will always show an unconscious submission to the conqueror. 

He hailed a boy on the road as he drew near to the house, knowing 
that he would find no one at the parsonage to hold his horse for him, 
and was thus able without delay to walk through the garden and knock 
at the door. " Papa was not at home, " Jane said. " Papa was at the 
school. But papa could certainly be summoned. She herself would 
run across to the school if Mr. Robarts would come in." So 
Mi\ Robarts entered, and found Mrs. Crawley in the sitting-room. 


Mr. Crawley would be in directly, she said. And then, hurrying on 
to the subject with confused haste, in order that a word or two might 
be spoken before her husband canie back, she expressed her thanks and 
his for the good things which had been sent to them at Christmas-tide. 

"It's old Lady Lufton's doings," said Mr. Eobarts, trying to laugh 
the matter over. 

"I knew that it came from Framley, Mr. Kobarts, and I know 
how good you all are there. I have not written to thank Lady Lufton. 
I thought it better not to write. Your sister will understand why, if 
no one els6 does. But you will tell them from me, I am sure, that it 
was, as they intended, a comfort to us. Your sister knows too much 
of us for me to suppose that our great poverty can be secret from 
her. And, as far as I am concerned, I do not now much care who 
knows it." 

" There is no disgrace in not being rich," said Mr. Eobarts. 

" No ; and the feeling of disgrace which does attach itself to being 
so poor as we are is deadened by the actual suffering which such 
poverty brings with it. At least it has become so with me. I am not 
ashamed to say that I am very grateful for what you all have done for 
us at Framley. But you must not say anything to him about that." 

" Of course I will not, Mrs. Crawley." 

" His spirit is higher than mine, I think, and he suffers more from 
the natural disinclination which we all have to receiving alms. Are you 
going to speak to him about this affair of the cheque, Mr. Robarts ? " 

" I am going to ask him to put his case into some lawyer's hands." 

"Oh! I wish he would !" 

" And will he not ?" 

" It is very kind of you, your coming to ask him, but " 

" Has he so strong an objection ? " 

" He will tell you that he has no money to pay a lawyer." 

"But, surely, if he were convinced that it was absolutely necessary 
for the vindication of his innocence, he would submit to charge himself 
with an expense so necessary, not only for himself, but for his family ?" 

" He will say it ought not to be necessary. You know, Mr. Robarts, 
that in some respects he is not like other men. You will not let what 
I say of him set you against him ? " 

"Indeed, no." 

" It is most kind of you to make the attempt. He will be here 
directly, and when he comes I will leave you together." 

While she was yet speaking his step was heard along the gravel- 
path, and he hurried into the room with quick steps. "I crave your 


pardon, Mr. Robarts," he said, "that I should keep you waiting." 
Now Mr. Eobarts had not been there ten minutes, and any such asking 
of pardon was hardly necessary. And, even in his own house, 
Mr. Crawley affected a mock humility, as though, either through his own 
debasement, or because of the superior station of the other clergyman, 
he were not entitled to put himself on an equal footing with his visitor. 
He would not have shaken hands with Mr. Eobarts, intending to 
indicate that he did not presume to do so while the present accusa- 
tion was hanging over him, had not the action been forced upon 
him. And then there was something of a protest in his manner, 
as though remonstrating against a thing that was unbecoming to 
him. Mr. Robarts, without analysing it, understood it all, and 
knew that behind the humility there was a crushing pride, a pride 
which, in all probability, would rise up and crush him before he could 
get himself out of the room again. It was, perhaps, after all, a 
question whether the man was not served rightly by the extremities to 
which he was reduced. There was something radically wrong within 
him, which had put him into antagonism with all the world, and which 
produced these never-dying grievances. There were many clergymen 
in the country with incomes as small as that which had fallen to the 
lot of Mr. Crawley, but they managed to get on without displaying 
their sores as Mr. Crawley displayed his. They did not wear their 
old rusty cloaks with all that ostentatious bitterness of poverty which 
seemed to belong to that garment when displayed on Mr. Crawley's 
shoulders. Such, for a moment, were Mr. Robarts' thoughts, and he 
almost repented himself of his present mission. But then he thought 
of Mrs. Crawley, and remembering that her sufferings were at any rate 
undeserved, determined that he would persevere. 

Mrs. Crawley disappeared almost as soon as her husband appeared, 
and Mr. Robarts found himself standing in front of his friend, who 
remained fixed on the spot, with his hands folded over each other and 
his neck slightly bent forward, in token also of humility. " I regret," 
he said, "that your horse should be left there, exposed to the 
inclemency of the weather ; but " 

" The horse won't mind it a bit," said Mr. Robarts. "A parson's 
horse is like a butcher's, and knows that he mustn't be particular about 
waiting in the cold." 

" I never have had one myself," said Mr. Crawley. Now 
Mr. Robarts had had more horses than one before now, and had been 
thought by some to have incurred greater expense than was befitting in 
his stable comforts. The subject, therefore, was a sore one, and he was 


worried a little. " I just wanted to say a few words to you, Crawley," 
he said, " and if I am not occupying too much of your time " 

" My time is altogether at your disposal. Will you be seated ?" 

Then Mr. Eobarts sat down, and, swinging his hat between his legs, 
bethought himself how he should begin his work. " We had the 
archdeacon over at Framley the other day," he said. " Of course you 
know the archdeacon ? " 

" I never had the advantage of any acquaintance with Dr. Grantly. 
Of course I know him well by name, and also personally, that is, by 

" And by character ? " 

" Nay; I can hardly say so much as that. But I am aware that 
his name stands high with many of his order." 

" Exactly ; that is what I mean. You know that his judgment is 
thought more of in clerical matters than that of any other clergyman 
in the county." 

"By a certain party, Mr. Eobarts." 

" Well, yes. They don't think much of him, I suppose, at the 
palace. But that won't lower him in your estimation." 

" I by no means wish to derogate from Dr. Grantly's high position 
in his own archdeaconry, to which, as you are aware, I am not 
attached, nor to criticize his conduct in any respect. It would be 
unbecoming in me to do so. But I cannot accept it as a point in a 
clergyman" 5 s favour, that he should be opposed to his bishop." 

Now this was too much for Mr. Robarts. After all that he had 
heard of the visit paid by Mr. Crawley to the palace, of the venom 
displayed by Mrs. Proudie on that occasion, and of the absolute want 
of subordination to episcopal authority which Mr. Crawley himself was 
supposed to have shown, Mr. Robarts did feel it hard that his friend 
the archdeacon should be snubbed in this way because he was deficient 
in reverence for his bishop ! "I thought, Crawley," he said, " that 
you yourself were inclined to dispute orders coming to you from the 
palace. The world at least says as much concerning you." 

" What the world says of me I have learned to disregard very much, 
Mr. Robarts. But I hope that I shall never disobey the authority of 
the Church when properly and legally exercised." 

" I hope with all my heart you never will ; nor I either. And the 
archdeacon, who knows, to the breadth of a hair, what a bishop ought to 
do and what he ought not, and what he may do and what he may not, 
will, I should say, be the last man in England to sin in that way." 

" Very probably. I am far from contradicting you there. Pray 


understand, Mr. Eobarts, that I bring no accusation against the arch- 
deacon. Why should I ? " 

" I didn't mean to discuss him at all." 

" Nor did I, Mr. Kobarts." 

"I only mentioned his nam'e, because, as I said, he was over with 
us the other day at Framley, and we were all talking about your 

" My affair ! " said Mr. Crawley. And then came a frown upon, his 
brow, and a gleam of fire into his eyes, which effectually banished that 
look of extreme humility which he had assumed. " And may I ask 
why the archdeacon was discussing my affair ? " 

" Simply from the kindness which he bears to you." 

"I am grateful for the archdeacon's kindness, as a man is bound 
to be for any kindness, whether displayed wisely or unwisely. But it 
seems to me that my affair, as you call it, Mr. Eobarts, is of that nature 
that they who wish well to me will better farther their wishes by silence 
than by any discussion." 

" Then I cannot agree with you." Mr. Crawley shrugged his 
shoulders, opened his hands a little and then closed them, and bowed 
his head. He could not have declared more clearly by any words that 
he differed altogether from Mr. Eobarts, and that as the subject was 
one so peculiarly his own he had a right to expect that his opinion 
should be allowed to prevail against that of any other person. " If 
you come to that, you know, how is anybody's tongue to be stopped ? " 

" That vain tongues cannot be stopped, I am well aware. I do not 
expect that people's tongues should be stopped. I am not saying what 
men will do, but what good wishes should dictate." 

" Well, perhaps you'll hear me out for a minute." Mr. Crawley 
again bowed his head. "Whether we were wise or unwise, we were 
discussing this affair." 

" Whether I stole Mr. Soames's money ? " 

" No ; nobody supposed for a moment you had stolen it." 

" I cannot understand how they should suppose anything else, 
knowing, as they do, that the magistrates have committed me for the 
theft. This took place at Framley, you say, and probably in Lord 
Lufton's presence." 

" Exactly." 

"And Lord Lufton was chairman at the sitting of the magistrates 
at which I was committed. How can it be that he should think 
otherwise ? " 

" I am. sure he has not an idea that you were guilty. Nor yet has 


Dr. Thorne, who was also one of the magistrates. I don't suppose one 
of them then thought so." 

" Then their action, to say the least of it, was very strange." 

" It was all because you had nobody to manage it for you. I 
thoroughly believe that if you had placed the matter in the hands of a 
good lawyer, you would never have heard a word more about it. That 
sfcems to be the opinion of everybody I speak to on the subject." 

" Then in this country a man is to be punished or not, according to 
his ability to fee a lawyer ! " 

" I am not talking about punishment." 

" And presuming an innocent man to have the ability and not the 
will to do so, he is to be punished, to be ruined root and branch, self 
and family, character and pocket, simply because, knowing his own 
innocence, he does not choose to depend on the mercenary skill of a 
man whose trade he abhors for the establishment of that which should 
be clear as the sun at noon-day ! You say I am innocent, and yet you 
tell me I am to be condemned as a guilty man, have my gown taken 
from me, be torn from my wife and children, be disgraced before the 
eyes of all men, and be made a byword and a thing horrible to be 
mentioned, because I will not fee an attorney to fee another man to 
come and lie on my behalf, to browbeat witnesses, to make false 
appeals, and perhaps shed false tears in defending me. You have 
come to me asking me to do this, if I understand you, telling me that 
the archdeacon would so advise me." 

" That is my object." Mr. Crawley, as he had spoken, had in his 
vehemence risen from his seat, and Mr. Robarts was also standing. 

''Then tell the archdeacon," said Mr. Crawley, " that I will have 
none of his advice. I will have no one there paid by me to obstruct 
the course of justice or to hoodwink a jury. I have been in courts of 
law, and know what is the work for which these gentlemen are hired. 
I will have none of it, and I will thank you to tell the archdeacon so, 
with my respectful acknowledgments of his consideration and con- 
descension. I say nothing as to my own innocence, or my own guilt. 
But I do say that if I am dragged before that tribunal, an innocent 
man, and am falsely declared to be guilty, because I lack money to 
bribe a lawyer to speak for me, then the laws of this country deserve 
but little of that reverence which we are accustomed to pay to them. 
And if I be guilty " 

" Nobody supposes you to be guilty." 

"And if I be guilty," continued Mr. Crawley, altogether ignoring 
the interruption, except by the repetition of his words, and a slight 


raising of his voice, "I will not add to my guilt by hiring any one to 
prove a falsehood or to disprove a truth." 

"I'm sorry that you should say so, Mr. Crawley." 

" I speak according to what light I have, Mr. Robarts ; and if I have 
been over-warm with you, and I am conscious that I have been in 
fault in that direction, I must pray you to remember that I am some- 
what hardly tried. My sorrows and troubles are so great that they rise 
against me and disturb me, and drive me on, whither I would not be 

" But, my friend, is not that just the reason why you should trust 
in this matter to some one who can be more calm than yourself ? " 

" I cannot trust to any one, in a matter of conscience. To do as 
you would have me is to me wrong. Shall I do wrong because I am 
unhappy? " 

" You should cease to think it wrong when so advised by persons 
you can trust." 

" I can trust no one with my own conscience ; not even the arch- 
deacon, great as he is." 

" The archdeacon has meant only well to you." 

" I will presume so. I will believe so. I do think so. Tell the 
archdeacon from me that I humbly thank him ; that, in a matter of 
church question, I might probably submit my judgment to his ; even 
though he might have no authority over me, knowing as I do that in 
such matters his experience has been great. Tell him also, that though 
I would fain that this unfortunate affair might burden the tongue of 
none among my neighbours, at least till I shall have stood before the 
judge to receive the verdict of the jury, and, if needful, his lordship's 
sentence still I am convinced that in what he has spoken, as also in 
what he has done, he has not yielded to the idleness of gossip, but has 
exercised his judgment with intended kindness." 

" He has certainly intended to do you a service ; and as for its not 
being talked about, that is out of the question." 

" And for yourself, Mr. Eobarts, whom I have ever regarded as a 
friend since circumstances brought me into your neighbourhood, for 
you, whose sister I love tenderly in memory of past kindness, though 
now she is removed so far above my sphere, as to make it unfit that I 
should call her my friend " 

" She does not think so at all." 

" For yourself, as I was saying, pray believe me that though from 
the roughness of my manner, being now unused to social intercourse, 
I seem to be ungracious and forbidding, I am grateful and mindful, and 


that in the tablets of my heart I have written you down as one in 
whom I could trust, were it given to me to trust in men and women." 
Then he turned round with his face to the wall and his back to his 
visitor, and so remained till Mr. Robarts had left him. " At any rate 
I wish you well through your trouble," said Eobarts ; and as he spoke 
he found that his own words were nearly choked by a sob that was 
rising in his throat. 

He went away without another word, and got out to his gig without 
seeing Mrs. Crawley. During one period of the interview he had been 
very angry with the man, so angry as to make him almost declare to 
himself that he would take no more trouble on his behalf. Then he 
had been brought to acknowledge that Mr. Walker was right, and that 
Crawley was certainly mad. He was so mad, so far removed from 
the dominion of sound sense, that no jury could say that he was guilty 
and that he ought to be punished for his guilt. And, as he so resolved, 
he could not but ask himself the question, whether the charge of the 
parish ought to be left in the hands of such a man ? But at last, just 
before he went, these feelings and these convictions gave way to pity, 
and he remembered simply the troubles which seemed to have been 
heaped on the head of this poor victim to misfortune. As he drove 
home he resolved that there was nothing left for him to do, but to write 
to the dean. It was known to all who knew them both, that the dean 
and Mr. Crawley had lived together on the closest intimacy at college, 
and that that friendship had been maintained through life ; though, 
from the peculiarity of Mr. Crawley's character, the two had not been 
much together of late years. Seeing how things were going now, and 
hearing how pitiful was the plight in which Mr. Crawley was placed, 
the dean would, no doubt, feel it to be his duty to hasten his return to 
England. He was believed to be at this moment in Jerusalem, and it 
would be long before a letter could reach him ; but there still wanted 
three months to the assizes, and his return might be probably effected 
before the end of February. 

" I never was so distressed in my life," Mark Robarts said to 
his wife. 

" And you think you have done no good ? " 

" Only this, that I have convinced myself that the poor man is not 
responsible for what he does, and that for her sake as well as for his 
own, some person should be enabled to interfere for his protection." 
Then he told Mrs. Robarts what Mr. Walker had said ; also the message 
which Mr. Crawley had sent to the archdeacon. But they both agreed 
that that message need not be sent on any further. 



MRS. THORNE had spoken very plainly in the advice which she had 
given to Major Grantly. " If I were you, I'd be at Allington before 
twelve o'clock to-morrow." That had been Mrs. Thome's advice ; and 
though Major Grantly had no idea of making the journey so rapidly as 
the lady had proposed, still he thought that he would make it before 
long, and follow the advice in spirit if not to the letter. Mrs. Thorne 
had asked him if it was fair that the girl should be punished because of 
the father's fault ; and the idea had been sweet to him that the infliction 
or non-infliction of such punishment should be in his hands. " You go 
and ask her," Mrs. Thorne had said. Well; he would go and ask 
her. If it should turn out at last that he had married the daughter of 
a thief, and that he was disinherited for doing so, an arrangement of 
circumstances which he had to teach himself to regard as very probable, 
he would not love Grace the less on that account, or allow himself 
for one moment to repent what he had done. As he thought of all this 
he became somewhat in love with a small income, and imagined to 
himself 'what honours would be done to him by the Mrs. Thomes of the 
county, when they should come to know in what way he had sacrificed 
himself to his love. Yes ; they would go and live at Pau. He thought 
Pau would do. He would have enough of income for that ; and Edith 
would get lessons cheaply, and would learn to talk French fluently. 
He certainly would do it. He would go down to Allington, and ask 
Grace to be his wife ; and bid her understand that if she loved him she 
could not be justified in refusing him by the circumstances of her 
father's position. 

But he must go to Plumstead before he could go to Allington. He 
was engaged to spend his Christmas there, and must go now at once. 
There was not time for the journey to Allington before he was due at 
Plumstead. And, moreover, though he could not bring himself to 
resolve that he would tell his father what he was going to do ; " It 
would seem as though I were asking his leave ! " he said to himself; 
he thought that he would make a clean breast of it to his mother. It 
made him sad to think that he should cut the rope which fastened his 
own boat among the other boats in the home harbour at Plumstead, 


arid that he should go out all alone into strange waters, turned adrift 
altogether, as it were, from the Grantly fleet. If he could only get the 
promise of his mother's sympathy for Grace it would be something. 
He understood, no one better than he, the tendency of all his family 
to an uprising in the world, which tendency was almost as strong in 
his mother as in his father. And he had been by no means without a 
similar ambition himself, though with him the ambition had been only 
fitful, not enduring. He had a brother, a clergyman, a busy, stirring, 
eloquent London preacher, who got churches built, and was heard of 
far and wide as a rising man, who had married a certain Lady Anne, 
the daughter of an earl, and who was already mentioned as a candidate 
for high places. How his sister was the wife of a marquis, and a leader 
in the fashionable world, the reader already knows. The archdeacon 
himself was a rich man, so powerful that he could afford to look down upon 
a bishop ; and Mrs. Grantly, though there was left about her something 
of an old softness of nature, a touch of the former life which had been 
hers before the stream of her days had run gold, yet she, too, had taken 
kindly to wealth and high standing, and was by no means one of those 
who construe literally that passage of scripture which tells us of the 
camel and the needle's eye. Our Henry Grantly, our major, knew 
himself to be his mother's favourite child, knew himself to have 
become so since something of coolness had grown up between her and 
her august daughter. The augustness of the daughter had done much 
to reproduce the old freshness of which I have spoken in the mother's 
heart, and had specially endeared to her the son who, of all her 
children, was the least subject to the family failing. The clergyman, 
Charles Grantly, he who had married the Lady Anne, was his 
father's darling in these days. The old archdeacon would go up to 
London and be quite happy in his son's house. He met there the men 
whom he loved to meet, and heard the talk which he loved to hear. It 
was very fine, having the Marquis of Hartletop for his son-in-law, but 
he had never cared to be much at Lady Hartletop's house. ' Indeed, 
the archdeacon cared to be in no house in which those around him 
were supposed to be bigger than himself. Such was the little family 
fleet from out of which Henry Grantly was now proposing to sail alone 
with his little boat, taking Grace Crawley with him at the helm. 
" My father is a just man at the bottom," he said to himself, " and 
though he may not forgive me, he will not punish Edith." 

But there was still left one of the family, not a Grantly, indeed, 
but one so nearly allied to them as to have his boat moored in the same 
harbour, who, as the major well knew, would thoroughly sympathize 



with him. This was old Mr. Harding, his mother's father, the father 
of his mother and of his aunt Mrs. Arabin, whose home was now at 
the deanery. He was also to be at Plumstead during this Christmas, 
and he at any rate would give a ready assent to such a marriage as that 
which the major was proposing for himself. But then poor old Mr. 
Harding had been thoroughly deficient in that ambition which .had served 
to aggrandize the family into which his daughter had married. He was 
a poor old man who, in spite of good friends, for the late bishop of the 
diocese had been his dearest friend, had never risen high in his pro- 
fession, and had fallen even from the moderate altitude which he had 
attained. But he was a man whom all loved who knew him ; and it was 
much to the credit of his son-in-law, the archdeacon, that, with all his 
tendencies to love rising suns, he had ever been true to Mr. Harding. 

Major Grantly took his daughter with him, and on his arrival at 
Plumstead she of course was the first object of attention. Mrs. Grantly 
declared that she had grown immensely. The archdeacon compli- 
mented her red cheeks, and said that Cosby Lodge was as healthy a 
place as any in the county, while Mr. Harding, Edith's great-grand- 
father, drew slowly from his pocket sundry treasures with which he had 
come prepared for the delight of the little girl. Charles Grantly and 
Lady Anne had no children, and the heir of all the Hartletops was too 
august to have been trusted to the embraces of her mother's grand- 
father. Edith, therefore, was all that he had in that generation, and 
of Edith he was prepared to be as indulgent as he had been, in their 
time, of his grandchildren the Grantlys, and still was of his grand- 
children the Arabins, and had been before that of his own daughters. 
" She's more like Eleanor than any one else," said the old man in a 
plaintive tone. Now Eleanor was Mrs. Arabin, the dean's wife, and 
was at this time, if I were to say over forty I do not think I should 
be uncharitable. No one else saw the special likeness, but no one else 
remembered, as Mr. Harding did, what Eleanor had been when she 
was three years old. 

" Aunt Nelly is in France," said the child. 

"Yes, my darling, aunt Nelly is in France, and I wish she were at 
home. Aunt Nelly has been away a long time." 

"I suppose she'll stay till the dean picks her up on his way home ?" 
said Mrs. Grantly. 

" So she says in her letters. I heard from her yesterday, and I 
brought the letter, as I thought you'd like to see it." Mrs. Grantly 
took the letter and read it, while her father still played with the child. 
The archdeacon and the major were standing together on the rug 



discussing the shooting at Chaldicotes, as to which the archdeacon had 
a strong opinion. " I'm quite sure that a man with a place like that 
does more good by preserving than by leaving it alone. The better 
head of game he has the richer the county will be generally. It is just 
the same with pheasants as it is with sheep and bullocks. A pheasant 
doesn't cost more than he's worth any more than a barn-door fowl. 
Besides, a man who preserves is always respected by the poachers, and 
the man who doesn't is not." 

" There's something in that, sir, certainly," said the major. 

"More than you think for, perhaps. Look at poor Sowerby, who 
went on there for years without a shilling. How he was respected, 
because he lived as the people around him expected a gentleman to 
live. Thome will have a bad time of it, if he tries to change things." 

" Only think," exclaimed Mrs. Grantly, "when Eleanor wrote she 
had not heard of that affair of poor Mr. Crawley's." 

" Does she say anything about him ? " asked the major. 

" I'll read what she says. * I see in Galignani that a clergyman in 
Barsetshire has been committed for theft. Pray tell me who it is. Not 
the bishop, I hope, for the credit of the diocese ? ' ' 

" I wish it were," said the archdeacon. 

"For shame, my dear," said his wife. 

" No shame at all. If we are to have a thief among us, I'd sooner 
find him in a bad man than a good one. Besides we should have a 
change at the palace, which would be a great thing." 

" But is it not odd that Eleanor should have heard nothing of it ? " 
said Mrs. Grantly. 

"It's odd that you should not have mentioned it yourself." 

" I did not, certainly ; nor you, papa, I suppose ? " 

Mr. Harding acknowledged that he had not spoken of it, and then 
they calculated that perhaps she might not have received any letter from 
her husband written since the news had reached him. " Besides, why 
should he have mentioned it ? " said the major. " He only knows as 
yet of the inquiry about the cheque, and can have heard nothing of 
what was done by the magistrates." 

" Still it seems so odd that Eleanor should not have known of it, 
seeing that we have been talking of nothing else for the last week," 
said Mrs. Grantly. 

For two days the major said not a word of Grace Crawley to any one. 
Nothing could be more courteous and complaisant than was his father's 
conduct to him. Anything that he wanted for Edith was to be done. 
For himself there was no trouble which would not be taken. His 


hunting, and his shooting, and his fishing seemed to have become 
matters of paramount consideration to his father. And then the arch- 
deacon became very confidential about money matters, not offering any- 
thing to his son, which, as he well knew, would have been seen through 
as palpable bribery and corruption, but telling him of this little 
scheme and of that, of one investment and of another ; how he con- 
templated buying a small property here, and spending a few thousands 
on building there. " Of course it is all for you and your brother," said 
the archdeacon, with that benevolent sadness which is used habitually 
by fathers on such occasions ; " and I like you to know what it is that 
I am doing. I told Charles about the London property the last time 
I was up," said the archdeacon, "and there shall be no difference 
between him and you, if all goes well." This was very good-natured 
on the archdeacon's part, and was not strictly necessary, as Charles 
was the eldest son; but the major understood it perfectly. "There 
shall be an elysium opened to you, if only you will not do that terrible 
thing of which you spoke when last here." The archdeacon uttered 
no such words as these, and did not even allude to Grace Crawley ; but 
the words were as good as spoken, and had they been spoken ever so 
plainly the major could not have understood them more clearly. He 
was quite awake to the loveliness of the elysium opened before him. 
He had had his moment of anxiety, whether his father would or would 
not make an elder son of his brother Charles. The whole thing was 
now put before him plainly. Give up Grace Crawley, and you shall 
share alike with your brother. Disgrace yourself by marrying her, and 
your brother shall have everything. There was the choice, and it was 
still open to him to take which side he pleased. Were he never to go 
near Grace Crawley again no one would blame him, unless it were 
Miss Prettyman or Mrs. Thorne. " Fill your glass, Henry," said the 
archdeacon. "You'd better, I tell you, for there is no more of it 
left." Then the major filled his glass and sipped the wine, and swore 
to himself that he would go down to Allington at once. "What ! Did 
his father think to bribe him by giving him '20 port ? He would 
certainly go down to Allington, and he would tell his mother to-morrow 
morning, or certainly on the next day, what he was going to do. " Pity 
it should be all gone ; isn't it, sir ? " said the archdeacon to his father- 
in-law. "It has lasted my time," said Mr. Harding, " and I'm very 
much obliged to it. Dear, dear ; how well I remember your father 
giving the order for it ! There were two pipes, and somebody said it 
was a heady wine. ' If the prebendaries and rectors can't drink it/ said 
your father, ' the curates will.' " 


" Curates indeed!" said the archdeacon. "It's too good for a 
bishop, unless one of the right sort." 

"Your father used to say those things, but with him the poorer 
the guest the better the cheer. When he had a few clergymen round 
him, how he loved to make them happy ! " 

" Never talked shop to them, did he ? " said the archdeacon. 

"Not after dinner, at any rate. Goodness gracious, when one 
thinks of it ! Do you remember how we used to play cards ? " 

" Every night regularly ; threepenny points, and sixpence on the 
rubber," said the archdeacon. 

" Dear, dear ! How things are changed ! And I remember when 
the clergymen did more of the dancing in Barchester than all the other 
young men in the city put together." 

"And a good set they were ; gentlemen every one of them. It's 
well that some of them don't dance now; that is, for the girls' sake." 

" I sometimes sit and wonder," said Mr. Harding, "whether your 
father's spirit ever comes back to the old house and sees the changes, 
and if so whether he approves them." 

" Approves them ! " said the archdeacon. 

" Well ; yes. I think he would, upon the whole. I'm sure of 
this : he would not disapprove, because the new ways are changed from 
his ways. He never thought himself infallible. And do you know, my 
dear, I am not sure that it isn't all for the best. I sometimes think that 
some of us were very idle when we were young. I was, I know." 

" I worked hard enough," said the archdeacon. 

" Ah, yes ; you. But most of us took it very easily. Dear, dear ! 
When I think of it, and see how hard they work now, and remember what 
pleasant times we used to have, I don't feel sometimes quite sure/' 

" I believe the work was done a great deal better than it is now," 
said the archdeacon. "There wasn't so much fuss, but there was more 
reality. And men were men, and clergymen were gentlemen. 

" Yes ; they were gentlemen." 

" Such a creature as that old woman at the palace couldn't have 
held his head up among us. That's what has come from Eeform. A 
reformed House of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and 
then your Prime Minister makep Dr. Proudie a bishop ! Well ; it 
will last my time, I suppose." 

" It has lasted mine, like the wine," said Mr. Harding. 

"There's one glass more, and you shall have it, sir." Then 
Mr. Harding drank the last glass of the 1820 port, and they went 
into the drawing-room. 


On the next morning after breakfast the major went out for a walk by 
himself. His father had suggested to him that he should go over to shoot 
at Framley, and had offered him the use of everything the archdeaconry 
possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns and carriages. But the 
major would have none of these things. He would go out and walk by 
himself. "He's not thinking of her; is he? " said the archdeacon to 
his wife, in a whisper. " I don't know. I think he is," said 
Mrs. Grantly. " It will be so much the better for Charles, if he does," 
said the archdeacon grimly ; and the look of his face as he spoke was 
by no means pleasant. " You will do nothing unjust, archdeacon," 
said his wife. " I will do as I like with my own," said he. And then 
he also went out and took a walk by himself. 

That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and no recollec- 
tions of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them, as tjiey 
sat together, and dulness is always more unendurable than sadness. 
Old Mr. Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross. " Henry," 
he said, " you haven't a word to throw to a dog." " I've got rather a 
headache this evening, sir," said the major. The archdeacon drank 
two glasses of wine, one after another, quickly. Then he woke his 
father-in-law gently, and went off. " Is there anything the matter ? " 
asked the old man. " Nothing particular. My father seems to be a 
little cross." " Ah ! I've been to sleep and I oughtn't. It's my fault. 
We'll go in and smooth him down." But the archdeacon wouldn't be 
smoothed down on that occasion. He would let his son see the difference 
between a father pleased, and a father displeased, or rather between a 
father pleasant, and a father unpleasant. " He hasn't said anything to 
you, has he ? " said the archdeacon that night to his wife. " Not a 
word ; as yet." " If he does it without the courage to tell us, I shall 
think him a cur," said the archdeacon. " But he did tell you," said 
Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favourite son ; " and, for the matter 
of that, he has courage enough for anything. If he does it, I shall 
always say that he has been driven to it by your threats." 

" That's sheer nonsense," said the archdeacon. 

"It's not nonsense at all," said Mrs. Grantly. 

" Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say nothing?" said 
the archdeacon ; and as he spoke he banged the door between his dressing- 
room and Mrs. Grantly 's bedroom. 

On the first day of the new year Major Grantly spoke his mind to 
his mother. The archdeacon had gone into Barchester, having in vain 
attempted to induce his son to go with him. Mr. Harding was in the 
library reading a little and sleeping a little, and dreaming of old days ' 


and old friends, and perhaps, sometimes, of the old wine. Mrs. Grantly 
was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequented upstairs, when 
suddenly her son entered the room. " Mother," he said, " I think it 
better to tell you that I am going to Allington." 

"To Allington, Henry?" She knew very well who was at 
Allington, and what must be the business which would take him there. 

" Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances 
which make it incumbent on me to see her without delay." 

" What circumstances, Henry ? " 

" As I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think it best to do so 
now. I owe it to her and to myself that she should not think that I 
am deterred by her father's position ? " 

" But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by 
her father's position ? " 

" No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well as 
ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such delay. Of course I 
am alive to the misfortune which has fallen upon her, upon her and 
me, too, should she ever become my wife. But it is one of those 
burdens which a man should have shoulders broad enough to bear." 

" Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to 
her. Then honour would require it of you, as well as affection. As it 
is, your honour does not require it, and I think you should hesitate, for 
all our sakes, and especially for Edith's." 

" It will do Edith no harm ; and, mother, if you alone were 
concerned, I think you would feel that it would not hurt you." 

" I was not thinking of myself, Henry." 

" As for my father, the very threats which he has used -make me 
conscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me that 
he will stop my allowance." 

"But that may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. 
You are the younger son of a man who will be held to be justified in 
making an elder son, if he thinks fit to do so." 

" I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell 
him that from me, it is all that I will ask you to do." 

" But you will see him yourself ? " 

" No, mother ; not till I have been to Allington. Then I will see 
him again or not, just as he pleases. I shall stop at Guestwick, and 
will write to you a line from thence. If my father decides on doing 
anything, let me know at once, as it will be necessary that I should get 
rid of the lease of my house." 

" Oh, Henry 1 " 


"I have thought a great deal about it, mother, and I believe I ain 
right. Whether I am right or wrong, I shall do it. I will not ask you 
now for any promise or pledge ; but should Miss Crawley become my 
wife, I hope that you at least will not refuse to see her as your 
daughter." Having so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was about to 
leave the room ; but she held him by his arm, and he saw that her eyes 
were full of tears. " Dearest mother, if I grieve you I am sorry indeed." 

" Not me, not me, not me," she said. 

" For my father, I cannot help it. Had he not threatened me I 
should have told him also. As- he has done so, you must tell him. 
But give him my kindest love." 

" Oh, Henry ; you will be ruined. You will, indeed. Can you not 
wait ? Remember how headstrong your father is, and yet how good ; 
and how he loves you ! Think of all that he has done for you. 
When did he refuse you anything ? " 

" He has been good to me, but in this I cannot obey him. He 
should not ask me." 

" You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right to expect that 
you will not bring disgrace upon the family." 

" Nor will I; except such disgrace as may attend upon poverty. 
Good-by, mother. I wish you could have said one kind word to me." 

" Have I not said a kind word ? " 

" Not as yet, mother." 

" I would not for worlds speak unkindly to you. If it were not for 
your father I would bid you bring whom you pleased home to me as 
your wife ; and I would be as a mother to her. And if this girl 
should become your wife " 

" It shalf not be my fault if she does not." 

" I will try to love her some day." 

Then the major went, leaving Edith at the rectory, as requested by 
his mother. His own dog-cart and his servant were at Plumstead, and 
he drove himself home to Cosby Lodge. 

When the archdeacon returned the news was told to him at once. 
" Henry has gone to Allington to propose to Miss Crawley," said 
Mrs. Grantly. 

" Gone, without speaking to me ! " 

" He left his love, and said that it was useless his remaining, as he 
knew he should only offend you." 

" He has made his bed, and he must lie upon it," said the arch- 
deacon. And then there was not another word said about Grace 
Crawley on that occasion. 



HE ladies at the Small Hduse 
at Allington breakfasted always 
at nine, a liberal nine ; and 
the postman whose duty it was 
to deliver letters in that village 
at half-past eight, being also 
liberal in his ideas as to time, 
always arrived punctually in 
the middle of breakfast, so that 
Mrs. Daie expected her letters, 
and Lily hers, just before their 
second cup of tea, as though 
the letters formed a part of the 
morning meal. Jane, the maid- 
servant, always brought them 
in, and handed them to Mrs. 

breakfast-table ; and then there would be an examination of the outsides 
before the envelopes were violated, and as each knew pretty well all the 
circumstances of the correspondence of the other, there would be some 
guessing as to what this or that epistle might contain ; and after that a 
reading out loud of passages, and not unfrequently of the entire letter. 
But now, at the time of which I am speaking, Grace Crawley was at 
the Small House, and therefore the common practice was somewhat in 

On one of the first days of the new year Jane brought in the letters as 
usual, and handed them to Mrs. Dale. Lily was at the time occupied with 
the teapot, but still she saw the letters, and had not her hands so full 
as to be debarred from the expression of her usual anxiety. " Mamma, 
I'm sure I see two there for me," she said. " Only one for you, Lily," 
said Mrs. Dale. Lily instantly knew from the tone of the voice that 
some letter had come, which by the very aspect of the handwriting 
had disturbed her mother. " There is one for you, my dear," said 
Mrs. Dale, throwing a letter across the table to Grace. " And one for 

ix, ' s 


you, Lily, from Boll. The others are for me." " And whom are yours 
from, mamma ? " asked Lily. " One is from Mrs. Jones ; the other, I 
think, is a letter on business." Then Lily said nothing further, but she 
observed that her mother only opened one of her letters at the breakfast- 
table. Lily was very patient ; not by nature, I think, but by exercise 
and practice. She had, once in her life, been too much in a hurry ; and 
having then burned herself grievously, she now feared the fire. She 
did not therefore follow her mother after breakfast, but sat with Grace 
over the fire, hemming diligently at certain articles of clothing which 
were intended for use in the Hogglestock parsonage. The two girls 
were making a set of new shirts for Mr. Crawley. " But I know he 
will ask where they come from," Bftid Grace ; " and then mamma will 
be scolded." " But I hope he'll wear them," said Lily. " Sooner or 
later he will," said Grace; "because mamma manages generally to 
have her way at last." Then they went on for an hour or so, talking 
about the home affairs at Hogglestock. But during the whole time 
Lily's mind was intent upon her mother's letter. 

Nothing was said about it at lunch, and nothing when they walked 
out after lunch, for Lily was very patient. But during the walk 
Mrs. Dale became aware that her daughter was uneasy. These two 
watched each other unconsciously with a closeness which hardly 
allowed a glance of the eye, certainly not a tone of the voice, to pass 
unobserved. To Mrs. Dale it was everything in the world that her 
daughter should be, if not happy at heart, at least tranquil ; and to 
Lily, who knew that her mother was always thinking of her, and of her 
alone, her mother was the only human divinity now worthy of adora- 
tion. But nothing was said about the letter during the walk. 

When they came home it was nearly dusk, and it was their habit 
to sit up for a while without candles, talking, till the evening had in 
truth set in and the unmistakable and enforced idleness of remaining 
without candles was apparent. During this time, Lily, demanding 
patience of herself all the while, was thinking what she would do, or 
rather what she would say, about the letter. That nothing could be 
done or said in the presence of Grace Oawley was a matter of course, 
nor would she do or say anything to get rid of Grace. She would be 
very patient ; but she would, at last, ask her mother about the letter. 

And then, as luck would have it, Grace Crawley got up and left the 
room. Lily still waited for a few minutes, and, in order that her 
patience might be thoroughly exercised, she said a word or two about her 
sister Bell ; how the eldest child's whooping-cough was nearly well, and 
how the baby was doing wonderful things with its first tooth. But as Mrs. 
Dale had already seen Bell's letter, all this was not intensely interesting. 


At last Lily came to the point and asked her question. " Mamma, from 
whom was that other letter which you got this morning ? " 

Our story will perhaps be best told by communicating the letter 
to the reader before it was discussed with Lily. The letter was as 
follows : 

" General Committee Office, January, 18G-" 

I should have said that Mrs. Dale had not opened the letter till she 
had found herself in the solitude of her own bedroom ; and that then, 
before doing so, she had examined the handwriting with anxious eyes. 
When she first received it she thought she knew the writer, but was not 
sure. Then she had glanced at the impression over the fastening, and 
had known at once from whom the letter had come. It was from 
Mr. Crosbie, the man who had brought so much trouble into her 
house, who had jilted her daughter ; the only man in the world whom 
she had a right to regard as a positive enemy to herself. She had no 
doubt about it, as she tore the envelope open; and yet, when tho 
address given made her quite sure, a new feeling of shivering came 
upon her, and she asked herself whether it might not be better that she 
should send his letter back to him without reading it. But she read it. 

"MADAM," the letter began, 

" You will be very much surprised to hear from me, and I am 
quite aware that I am not entitled to the ordinary courtesy of an 
acknowledgment from you, should you be pleased to throw my letter 
on one side as unworthy of your notice. But I cannot refrain from 
addressing you, and must leave it to you to reply to me or not, as you 
may think fit. 

"I will only refer to that episode of my life with which you are 
acquainted, for. the sake of acknowledging my great fault and of 
assuring you that I did not go unpunished. It would be useless for 
me now to attempt to explain to you the circumstances which led me 
into that difficulty which ended in so great a blunder ; but I will ask 
you to believe that my folly was greater than my sin. 

" But I will come to my point at once. You are, no doubt, aware 
that I married a daughter of Lord De Courcy, and that I was separated 
from my wife, a few weeks after our unfortunate marriage. It is now 
something over twelve months since she died at Baden-Baden in her 
mother's house. I never saw her since the day we first parted. I have 
not a word to say against her. The fault was mine in marrying a 
woman whom I did not love and had never loved. When I married 
Lady Alexandrina I loved, not her, but your daughter. 

"I believe I may venture to say to you that your daughter once 

s 2 


loved me. From the day on which I last wrote to you that terrible 
letter which told you of my, fate, I have never mentioned the name of 
Lily Dale to human ears. It has been too sacred for my mouth, too 
sacred for the intercourse of any friendship with which I have been 
blessed. I now use it for the first time to you, in order that I may ask 
whether it be possible that her old love should ever live again. Mine 
has lived always, has never faded for an hour, making me miserable 
during the years that have passed since I saw her, but capable of 
making me very happy, if I may be allowed to see her again. 

" You will understand my purpose now as well as though I were to 
write pages. I have no scheme formed in my head for seeing your 
daughter again. How can I dare to form a scheme, when I am aware 
that the chance of success must be so strong against me ? But if you 
will tell me that there can be a gleam of hope, I will obey any 
commands that you can put upon me in any way that you may point 
out. I am free again, and she is free. I love her with all my heart, 
and seem to long for nothing in the world but that she should become 
my wife. Whether any of her old love may still abide with her, yon 
will know. If it do, it may even yet prompt her to forgive one who, 
in spite of falseness of conduct, has yet been true to her in .heart. 
" I have the honour to be, Madam, 

"Your most obedient servant, 


This was the letter which Mrs. Dale had received, and as to which 
she had not as yet said a word to Lily, or even made up her mind 
whether she would say a word or not. Dearly as the mother and 
daughter loved each other, thorough as was the confidence between 
them, yet the name of Adolphus Crosbie had not been mentioned 
between them oftener, perhaps, than half-a-dozen times since the blow 
had been struck. Mrs. Dale knew that their feelings about the man 
were altogether different. She, herself, not only condemned him for 
what he had done, believing it to be impossible that any shadow of 
excuse could be urged for his offence, thinking that the fault had shown 
the man to be mean beyond redemption, but she had allowed herself 
actually to hate him. He had in one sense murdered her daughter, 
and she believed that she could never forgive him. But Lily, as her 
mother well knew, had forgiven this man altogether, had made excuses 
for him which cleansed his sin of all its blackness in her own eyes, 
and was to this day anxious as ever for his welfare and his happiness. 
Mrs. Dale feared that Lily did in truth love him still. If it was so, was 
she not bound to show her this letter ? Lily was old enough to judge 
for herself, old enough, and wise enough too. Mrs. Dale told herself 


half-a-score of times that morning that she could not be justified in 
keeping the letter from her daughter. 

But yet she much wished that the letter had never been written, 
and would have given very much to be able to put it out of the way 
without injustice to Lily. To her thinking it would be impossible that 
Lily should be happy in marrying such a man. Such a marriage now 
would be, as Mrs. Dale thought, a degradation to her daughter. A 
terrible injury had been done to her ; but such reparation as this would, 
in Mrs. Dale's eyes, only make the injury deeper. And yet Lily loved 
the man ; and, loving him, how could she resist the temptation of his 
offer ? " Mamma, from whom was that letter which you got this 
morning ? " Lily asked. For a few moments Mrs. Dale remained 
silent. "Mamma," continued Lily, "I think I know whom it was 
from. If you tell me to ask nothing further', of course I will not." 

" No, Lily'; I cannot tell you that." 

" Then, mamma, out with it at once. What is the use of shivering 
on the brink ? " 

" It was from Mr. Crosbie." 

" I knew it. I cannot tell you why, but I knew it. And now, 
mamma ; am I to read it ? " 

" You shall do as you please, Lily." 

" Then I please to read it." 

" Listen to me a moment first. For myself, I wish that the letter 
had never been written. It tells badly for the man, as I think of it. 
I cannot understand how any man could have brought himself to 
address either you or me, after having acted as he acted." 

"But, mamma, we differ about all that, you know." 

" Now he has written, and there is the letter, if you choose to 
read it." 

Lily had it in her hand, but she still sat motionless, holding it. 
" You think, mamma, I ought not to read it ? " 

" You must judge for yourself, dearest." 

" And if I do not read it, what shall you do, mamma ? " 

"I shall do nothing; or, perhaps, I should in such a case 
acknowledge it, and tell him that we have nothing more to say to him." 

" That would be very stern." 

" He has done that which makes some sternness necessary." 

Then Lily was again silent, and still she sat motionless, with the 
letter in her hand. " Mamma," she said, at last, " if you tell me not 
to read it, I will give it you back unread. If you bid me exercise my 
own judgment, I shall take it upstairs and read it." 

" You must exercise your own judgment," said Mrs. Dale. Then 


Lily got up from her chair and walked slowly out of the room, and 
went to her mother's chamber. The thoughts which passed through 
Mrs. Dale's mind while her daughter was reading the letter were 
very sad. She could find no comfort anywhere. Lily, she told her- 
self, would surely give way to this man's renewed expressions of 
affection, and she, Mrs. Dale herself, would be called upon to give her 
child to a man whom she could neither love nor respect ; whom, for 
aught she knew, she could never cease to hate. And she could not 
bring herself to believe that Lily would be happy with such a man. 
As for her own life, desolate as it would be, she cared little for 
that. Mothers know that their daughters will leave them. Even 
widowed mothers, mothers with but one child left, such a one as 
was this mother, are aware that they will be left alone, and they 
can bring themselves to welcome the sacrifice of themselves with 
something of satisfaction. Mrs. Dale and Lily had, indeed, of late 
become bound together especially, so that the mother had been justified 
in regarding the .link which joined them as being firmer than that by 
which most daughters are bound to their mothers ; but in all that she 
would have found no regret. Even now, in these very days, she was 
hoping that Lily might yet be brought to give herself to John Eames. 
But she could not, after all that was come and gone, be happy in 
thinking that Lily should be given to Adolphus Crosbie. 

"When Mrs. Dale went upstairs to her own room before dinner Lily 
was not there ; nor were they alone together again that evening, except 
for a moment, when Lily, as was usual, went into her mother's room 
when she was undressing. But neither of them then said a word about 
the letter. Lily during dinner and throughout the evening had borne 
herself well, giving no sign of special emotion, keeping to herself 
entirely her own thoughts about the proposition made to her. And 
afterwards she had progressed diligently with the fabrication of 
Mr. Crawley's shirts, as though she had no such letter in her pocket. 
And yet there was not a moment in which she was not thinking of it. 
To Grace, just before she went to bed, she did say one word. "I 
wonder whether it can ever come to a person to be so placed that there 
can be no doing right, let what will be done ; that, do or not do, as you 
may, it must be wrong ? " 

" I hope you are not in such a condition," said Grace. 

"I am something near it," said Lily, "but perhaps if I look long 
enough I shall see the light." 

" I hope it will be a happy light at last," said Grace, who thought 
that Lily was referring only to John Eames. 

At noon on the next day Lily had still said nothing to her mother 


about the letter; and then what she said was very little. "When 
must you answer Mr. Crosbie, mamma ? " 

" When, my dear ? " 

" I mean how long may you take ? It need not be to-day." 

" No ; certainly not to-day." 

"Then I will talk over it with you to-morrow. It wants some 
thinking ; does it not, mamma ? " 

" It would not want much with me, Lily." 

" But then, mamma, you are not I. Believing as I believe, feeling 
as I feel, it wants some thinking. That's what I mean." 

" I wish I could help you, my dear." 

"You shall help me, to-morrow." The morrow came and Lily 
was still very patient ; but she had prepared herself, and had prepared 
the time also, so that in the hour of the gloaming she was alone with 
her mother, and sure that she might remain alone with her for an hour 
or so. " Mamma, sit there," she said ; " I will sit down here, and then 
I can lean against you and be comfortable. You can bear as much of 
me as that, can't you, mamma ? " Then Mrs. Dale put her arm over 
Lily's shoulder, and embraced her daughter. "And now, mamma, we 
will talk about this wonderful letter." 

" I do not know, dear, that I have anything to say about it." 

" But you must have something to say about it, mamma. You must 
bring yourself to have something to say, to have a great deal to say." 

" You know what I think as well as though I talked for a week." 

" That won't do, mamma. Come, you must not be hard with me." 

"Hard, Lily!" 

" I don't mean that you will hurt me, or not give me any food, or 
that you will not go on caring about me more than anything else in the 

whole world ten times over; " And Lily as she spoke tightened 

the embrace of her mother's arm round her neck. " I'm not afraid 
you'll be hard in that way. But you must soften your heart so as to 
be able to mention his name and talk about him, and tell me what I 
ought to do. You must see with my eyes, and hear with my ears, and 
feel with my heart ; and then, when I know that you have done that, 
I must judge with your judgment." 

" I wish you to use your own." 

" Yes ; because you won't see with my eyes and hear with my 
ears. That's what I call being hard. Though you should feed mo 
with blood from your breast, I should call you a hard pelican, unless 
you could give me also the sympathy which I demand from you. You 
see, mamma, we have never allowed ourselves to speak of this man." 

" What need has there been, dearest ? " 


" Only because we have been thinking of him. Out of the full 
heart the mouth speaketh ; that is, the mouth does so when the full 
heart is allowed to have its own way comfortably." 

" There are things which should be forgotten." 

" Forgotten, mamma ! " 

" The memory of which should not be fostered by much talking." 

" I have never blamed you, mamma ; never, even in my heart. I 
have known how good and gracious and sweet you have been. But I 
have often accused myself of cowardice because I have not allowed 
his name to cross my lips either to you or to Bell. To talk of for- 
getting such an accident as that is a farce. And as for fostering the 

memory of it ! Do you think that I have ever spent a night from 

that time to this without thinking of him ? Do you imagine that I 
have ever crossed our own lawn, or gone down through the garden-path 
there, without thinking of the times when he and I walked there 
together? There needs no fostering for such memories as those. They 
are weeds which will grow rank and strong though nothing be done to 
foster them. There is the earth and the rain, and that is enough for 
them. You cannot kill them if you would, and they certainly will not 
die because you are careful not to hoe and rake the ground." 

" Lily, you forget how short the time has been as yet." 

" I have thought it very long; but the truth is, mamma, that this 
uon-fostering of memories, as you call it, has not been the real cause of 
our silence. We have not spoken of Mr. Crosbie because we have not 
thought alike about him. Had you spoken you would have spoken with 
anger, and I could not endure to hear him abused. That has been it." 

" Partly so, Lily." 

" Now you must talk of him, and you must not abuse him. We 
must talk of him, because something must be done about his letter. 
Even if it be left unanswered, it cannot be so left without discussion. 
And yet you must say no evil of him." 

" Am I to think that he behaved well ? " 

" No, mamma ; you are not to think that ; but you are to look upon 
his fault as a fault that has been forgiven." 

" It cannot be forgotten, dear." 

" But, mamma, when you go to heaven " 

" My dear ! " 

" But you will go to heaven, mamma, and why should I not speak 
of it ? You will go to heaven, and yet I suppose you have been very 
wicked, because we are all very wicked. But you won't be told of 
your wickedness there. You won't be hated there, because you were 
this or that when you were here." 


" I hope not, Lily ; but isn't your argument almost profane ? " 

" No ; I don't think so. We ask to be forgiven just as we forgive. 
That is the way in which we hope to be forgiven, and therefore it is the 
way in which we ought to forgive. When you say that prayer at night, 
mamma, do you ever ask yourself whether you have forgiven him ? " 

" I forgive him as far as humanity can forgive. I would do him 
no injury." 

" But if you and I are forgiven only after that fashion we shall 
never get to heaven." Lily paused for some further answer from her 
mother, but as Mrs. Dale was silent she allowed that portion of the 
subject to pass as completed. " And now, mamma, what answer do 
you think we ought to send to his letter ? " 

" My dear, how am I to say ? You know I have said already that 
if I could act on my own judgment, I would send none*" 

" But that was said in the bitterness of gall." 

" Come, Lily, say what you think yourself. We shall get on better 
when you have brought yourself to speak. Do you think that you wish 
to see him again ? " 

" I don't know, mamma. Upon the whole, I think not." 

" Then in heaven's name let me write and tell him so." 

" Stop a moment, mamma. There are two persons here to be 
considered, or rather, three." 

" I would not have you think of me in such a question." 

" I know you would not ; but never mind, and let me go on. The 
three of us are concerned, at any rate ; you, and he, and I. I am 
thinking of him now. We have all suffered, but I do believe that 
hitherto he has had the worst of it." 

" And who has deserved the worst ? " 

" Mamma, how can you go back in that way ? We have agreed 
that that 'should be regarded as done and gone. He has been very 
unhappy, and now we see what remedy he proposes to himself for his 
misery. Do I flatter myself if I allow myself to look at it in that way ? " 

" Perhaps he thinks h'e is offering a remedy for your misery." 

As this was said Lily turned round slowly and looked up into her 
mother's face. " Mamma," she said, "that is very cruel. I did not 
think you could be so cruel. How can you, who believe him to be so 
selfish, think that?" 

" It is very hard to judge of men's motives. I have never supposed 
him to be so black that he would not wish to make atonement for the 
evil he has done." 

" If I thought that there certainly could be but one answer." 

" Who can look into a man's heart and judge all the sources of his 


actions ? There are mixed feelings there, no doubt. Eemorse for 
what he has done ; regret for what he has lost ; something, perhaps, 
of the purity of love." 

" Yes, something, I hope something, for his sake." 

" But when a horse kicks and bites, you know his nature and do 
not go near him. When a man has cheated you once, you think he will 
cheat you again, and you do not deal with him. You do not look to 
gather grapes from thistles, after you have found that they are thistles." 

" I still go for the roses though I have often torn my hand with 
thorns in looking for them." 

"But you do not pluck those that have become cankered in the 

" Because he was once at fault, will he be cankered always ? " 

" I would not trust him." 

" Now, mamma, see how different we are ; or, rather, how different 
it is when one judges for oneself or for another. If it were simply 
myself, and my own future fate in life, I would trust him with it all 
to- morrow, without a word. I should go to him as a gambler goes to 
the gambling- table, knowing that if I lost everything I could hardly be 
poorer than I was before. But I should have a better hope than the 
gambler is justified in having. "That, however, is not my difficulty. 
And when I think of him I can see a prospect of success for the gambler. 
I think so well of myself that, loving him, as I do ; yes, mamma, do 
not be uneasy ; loving him, as I do, I believe I could be a comfort to 
him. I think that he might be better with me than without me. That 
is, he would be so, if he could teach himself to look back upon the past 
as I can do, and to judge of me as I can judge of him." 

" He has nothing, at least, for which to condemn you." 

" But he would have, were I to marry him now. He would condemn 
me because I had forgiven him. He would condemn me because I had 
borne what he had done to me, and had still loved him loved him 
through it all. He would feel and know the weakness ; and there is 
weakness. I have been weak in not being able to rid myself of him 
altogether. He would recognize this after .awhile, and would despise 
me for it. But he would not see what there is of devotion to him in 
my being able to bear the taunts of the world in going back to him, and 
your taunts, and my own taunts. I should have to bear his also, not 
spoken aloud, but to be seen in his face and heard in his voice, and 
that I could not endure. If he despised me, and he would, that 
would make us both unhappy. Therefore, mamma, tell him not to 
come ; tell him that he can never come ; but, if it be possible, tell him 
this tenderly." Then she got up and walked away, as though she were 


going out of the room ; but her mother had caught her before the door 
was opened. 

"Lily," she said, "if you think you can be happy with him, he 
shall come." 

" No, mamma, no. I have been looking for the light ever since I read 
his letter, and I think I see it. And now, mamma, I will make a clean 
breast of it. From the moment in which I heard that that poor woman 
was dead, I have been in a state of flutter. It has been weak of me, and 
silly, and contemptible. But I could not help it. I kept on asking myself 
whether he would ever think of me now. Well ; he has answered the 
question ; and has so done it that he has forced upon me the necessity 
of a resolution. I have resolved, and I believe fuat I shall be the 
better for it." 

The letter which Mrs. Dale wrote to Mr. Crosbie, was as follows : 

" Mrs. Dale presents her compliments to Mr. Crosbie, and begs to 
assure him that it will not now be possible that he should renew the 
relations which were broken off three years ago, between him and 
Mrs. Dale's family." It was very short, certainly, and it did not by 
any means satisfy Mrs. Dale. But she did not know how to say more 
without saying too much. The object of her letter was to save liim the 
trouble of a futile perseverance, and them from the annoyance of perse- 
cution ; and this she wished to do without mentioning her daughter's 
name. And she was determined that no word should escape her in 
which there was any touch of severity, any hint of an accusation. So 
much she owed to Lily in return for all that Lily was prepared to 
abandon. " There is my note," she said at last, offering it to her 
daughter. "I did not mean to see it," said Lily, " and, mamma, 
I will not read it now. Let it go. I know you have been good and 
have not scolded him." "I have not scolded him, certainly," said 
Mrs. Dale. And then the letter was sent. 



ME. JOHN EAMES, of the Income-tax Office, had in these days risen 
so high in the world that people in the west-end of town, and very 
respectable people too, people living in South Kensington, in neigh- 
bourhoods not far from Belgravia, and in very handsome houses 
round Bayswater, were glad to ask him out to dinner. Money had 
been left to him by an earl, and rumour had of course magnified that 


money. He was a private secretary, which is in itself a great advance 
on being a mere clerk. And he had become the particularly intimate 
friend of an artist who had pushed himself into high fashion during 
the last year or two, one Conway Dalrymple, whom the rich English 
world was beginning to pet and pelt with gilt sugar-plums, and who 
seemed to take very kindly to petting and gilt sugar-plums. I don't know 
whether the friendship of Conway Dalrymple had not done as much to 
secure John Eames his position at the Bayswater dinner- tables, as had 
either the private secretaryship, or the earl's money ; and yet, when 
they had first known each other, now Only two or three years ago, 
Conway Dalrymple had been the poorer man of the two. Some chance 
had brought them together, and they had lived in the same rooms for 
nearly two years. This arrangement had been broken up, and the 
Conway Dalrymple of these days had a studio of his own, somewhere near 
Kensington Palace, where he painted portraits of young countesses, and 
in which he had even painted a 'young duchess. It was the peculiar 
merit of his pictures, so at least said the art-loving world, that 
though the likeness was always good, the stiffness of the modern 
portrait was never there. There was also ever some story told in 
Dalrymple' s pictures over and above the story of the portraiture. This 
countess was drawn as a fairy with wings, that countess as a goddess 
with a helmet. The thing took for a time, and Conway Dalryrnple 
was picking up his gilt sugar-plums with considerable rapidity. 

On a certain day he and John Eames were to dine out together at a 
certain house in that Bayswater district. It was a large mansion, if not 
made of stone yet looking very stony, with thirty windows at least, all of 
them with cut-stone frames, requiring, let me say, at least four thousand a 
year for its maintenance. And its owner, Dobbs Broughton, a man very 
well known both in the City and over the grass in Northamptonshire, 
was supposed to have a good deal more than four thousand a year. Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton, a very beautiful woman, who certainly was not yet 
thirty-five, let her worst enemies say what they might, had been painted 
by Conway Dalrymple as a Grace. There were, of course, three Graces 
in the picture, but each Grace was Mrs. Dobbs Broughton repeated. 
We all know how Graces stand sometimes ; two Graces looking one 
way, and one the other. In this picture, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton as 
centre Grace looked you full in the face. The same lady looked away 
from you, displaying her left shoulder as one side Grace, and dis- 
playing her right shoulder as the other side Grace. For this pretty toy 
Mr. Conway Dalrymple had picked up a gilt sugar-plum to the tune of 
six hundred pounds, and had, moreover, won the heart both of Mr. and 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. "Upon my word, Johnny," Dalrymple had 


said to his friend, "he's a deuced good fellow, has really a good glass 
of claret, which is getting rarer and rarer every day, and will mount 
you for a day, whenever you please, down at Market Harboro'. Come 
and dine with them." Johnny Eames condescended, and did go and 
dine with Mr. Dobbs Broughton. I wonder whether he remembered, 
when Conway Dalrymple was talking of the rarity of good claret, how 
much beer the young painter used to drink when they were out together 
in the country, as they used to be occasionally, three years ago ; and how 
the painter had then been used to complain that bitter beer cost three- 
pence a glass, instead of twopence, which had hitherto been the recog- 
nized price of the article. In those days the sugar-plums had not been 
gilt, and had been much rarer. 

Johnny Eames and his friend went together to the house of 
Mr. Dobbs Broughton. As Dalrymple lived close to the Broughtons, 
Eames picked him up in a cab. " Filthy things, these cabs are," said 
Dalrymple, as he got into the Hansom. 

" I don't know about that," said Johnny. " They're pretty good, 
I think." 

" Foul things," said Conway. "Don't you feel what a draught 
comes in here because the glass is cracked. I'd have one of my own, 
only I should never know what to do with it." 

" The greatest nuisance on earth, I should think," said Johnny. 

"If you could always have it standing ready round the corner," 
said the artist, " it would be delightful. But one would want half a 
dozen horses, and two or three men for that." 

" I think the stands are the best," said Johnny. 

They were a little late, a little later than they should have been had 
they considered that Eames w'as to be introduced to his new acquaint- 
ances. But he had already lived long enough before the world to be 
quite at his ease in such circumstances, and he entered Mrs. Broughton's 
drawing-room with his pleasantest smile upon his face. But as he 
entered he saw a sight which made him look serious in spite of his efforts 
to the contrary. Mr. Adolphus Crosbie, secretary to the Board at the 
General Committee Office, was standing on the rug before the fire. 

" Who will be there ? " Eames.had asked of his friend, when the sug- 
gestion to go and dine with Dobbs Broughton had been made to him. 

" Impossible to say," Conway had replied. " A certain horrible 
fellow of the name of Musselboro, will almost certainly be there. He 
always is when they have anything of a swell dinner-party. He is a 
sort of partner of Broughton's in the city. He wears a lot of chains, 
and has elaborate whiskers, and an elaborate waistcoat, which is worse ; 
and he doesn't wash his hands as often as he ought to do." 


" An objectionable party, rather, I should say," said Eames. 

" Well, yes ; Musselboro is objectionable. He's very good-humoured 
you know, and good-looking in a sort of way, and goes everywhere ; 
that is among people of this sort. Of course he's not hand-and-glovo 
with Lord Derby ; and I wish he could be made to wash his hands. 
They haven't any other standing dish, and you may meet anybody. 
They always have a Member of Parliament ; they generally manage to 
catch a Baronet; and I have met a Peer there. On that august 
occasion Musselboro was absent." 

So instructed, Eames, on entering the room, looked round at once 
for Mr. Musselboro. " If I don't see the whiskers and chain," he had 
said, " I shall know there's a Peer." Mr. Musselboro was in the room, 
but Eames had descried Mr. Crosbie long before he had seen Mr. 

There was no reason for confusion on his part in meeting Crosbie. 
They had both loved Lily Dale. Crosbie might have been successful, 
but for his own fault. Eames had on one occasion been thrown into 
contact with him, and on that occasion had quarrelled with him and 
had beaten him, giving him a black eye, and in this way obtaining 
some mastery over him. There was no reason why he should be 
ashamed of meeting Crosbie ; and yet, when he saw him, the blood 
mounted all over his face, and he forgot to make any further search 
for Mr. Musselboro. 

"I am so much obliged to Mr. Dalrymple for bringing you," said 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton very sweetly, " only he ought to have come 
sooner. Naughty man ! I know it was his fault. Will you take Miss 
Demolines down ? Miss Demolines, Mr. Eames." 

Mr. Dobbs Broughton was somewhat sulky and had not welcomed 
our hero very cordially. He was beginning to think that Conway 
Dalrymple gave himself airs and did not sufficiently understand that 
a man who had horses at Market Harboro' and '41 Lafitte was at any 
rate as good as a painter who was pelted -with gilt sugar-plums for 
painting countesses. But he was a man whose ill-humour never 
lasted long, and he was soon pressing his wine on Johnny Eames as 
though he loved him dearly. 

But there was yet a few minutes before they went down to dinner, 
and Johnny Eames, as he endeavoured to find something to say to 
Miss Demolines, which was difficult, as he did not in the least know 
Miss Demolines' line of conversation, was aware that his efforts were 
impeded by thoughts of Mr. Crosbie. The man looked older than 
when he had last seen him, so much older that Eames was astonished. 
He was bald, or becoming bald ; and his whiskers were grey, or were 



becoming grey, and he was much fatter. Johnny Eames, who was 
always thinking of Lily Dale, could not now keep himself from thinking 
of Adolphus Crosbie. He saw at a glance that the man was in 
mourning, though there was nothing but his shirt-studs by which to 
tell it; and he knew that he was in mourning for his wife. " I wish 
she might have lived for ever," Johnny said to himself. 

He had not yet been definitely called upon by the entrance of the 
servant to offer his arm to Miss Demolines, when Crosbie walked across 
to him from the rug and addressed him. 

" Mr. Eames," said he, "it is some time since we met." And he 
offered his hand to Johnny. 

"Yes, it is," said Johnny, accepting the proffered salutation. "I 
don't know exactly how long, but ever so long." 

"I am very glad to have the opportunity of shaking hands with 
you," said Crosbie ; and then he retired, as it had become his duty to 
wait with his arm ready for Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Having married an 
earl's daughter he was selected for that honour. There was a barrister 
in the room, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to have known better. 
As she professed to be guided in such matters by the rules laid down 
by the recognized authorities, she ought to have been aware that a 
man takes no rank from his wife. But she was entitled I think to 
merciful consideration for her error. A woman situated as was Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton cannot altogether ignore these terrible rules. She 
cannot let her guests draw lots for precedence. She must select some 
one for the honour of her own arm. And amidst the intricacies of rank 
how is it possible for a woman to learn and to remember everything ? 
If Providence would only send Mrs. Dobbs Broughton a Peer for every 
dinner-party, the thing would go more easily ; but what woman will 
tell me, off-hand, which should go out of a room first; a C.B., an 
Admiral of the Blue, the Dean of Barchester, or the Dean of Arches ? 
Who is to know who was everybody's father ? How am I to remember 
that young Thompson's progenitor was made a baronet and not a knight 
when he was Lord Mayor ? Perhaps Mrs. Dobbs Broughton ought to 
have known that Mr. Crosbie could have gained nothing by his wife's 
rank, and the barrister may be considered to have been not immode- 
rately severe when he simply spoke of her afterwards as the silliest and 
most ignorant old woman he had ever met in his life. Eames with the 
lovely Miss Demolines on his arm was the last to move before the 
hostess. Mr. Dobbs Broughton had led the way energetically with old 
Lady Demolines. There was no doubt about Lady Demolines, as his 
wife had told him, because her title marked her. Her husband had 
been a physician in Paris, and had been knighted in consequence of 


some benefit supposed to have been done to some French scion of 
royalty, when such scions in France were royal and not imperial. 
Lady Demolines' rank was not much, certainly ; but it served to mark 
her, and was beneficial. 

As he went downstairs Eames was still thinking of his meeting 
with Crosbie, and had as yet hardly said a word to his neighbour, and 
his neighbour had not said a word to him. Now -Johnny understood 
dinners quite well enough to know that in a party of twelve, among 
whom six are ladies, everything depends on your next neighbour, and 
generally on the next neighbour who specially belongs to you ; and as 
he took his seat he' was a little alarmed as to his prospect for the next 
two hours. On his other hand sat Mrs. Ponsonby, the barrister's wife, 
and he did not much like the look of Mrs. Ponsonby. She was fat, 
heavy, and good-looking ; with a broad space between her eyes, and 
light smooth hair ; a youthful British matron every inch of her, of 
whom any barrister with a young family of children might be proud. 
Now Miss Demolines, though she was hardly to be called beautiful, was 
at any rate remarkable. She had large, dark, well- shaped eyes, and 
very dark hair, which she wore tangled about in an extraordinary 
manner, and she had an expressive face, a face made expressive bj 
the owner's will. Such power of expression is often attained by dint of 
labour, though it never reaches to the expression of anything in par- 
ticular. She was almost sufficiently good-looking to be justified in 
considering herself to be a beauty. 

But Miss Demolines, though she had said nothing as yet, knew her 
game very well. A lady cannot begin conversation to any good 
purpose in the drawing-room, when she is seated and the man is 
standing ; nor can she know then how the table may subsequently 
arrange itself. Powder may be wasted, and often is wasted, and the 
spirit rebels against the necessity of commencing a second enterprise. 
But Miss Demolines, when she found herself seated, and perceived that 
on the other side of her was Mr. Ponsonby, a married man, commenced 
her enterprise at once, and our friend John Eames was immediately 
aware that he would have no difficulty as to conversation. 

"Don't you like winter dinner-parties?" began Miss Demolines. 
This was said just as Johnny was taking his seat, and he had time to 
declare that he liked dinner-parties at all periods of the year if the 
dinner was good and the people pleasant before the host had muttered 
something which was intended to be understood to be a grace. "But 
I mean especially in winter," continued Miss Demolines. "I don't 
think daylight should ever be admitted at a dinner-table ; and though 
you may shut out the daylight, you can't shut out the heat. And 


then there are always so many other things to go to in May and June 
and July. Dinners should be stopped by Act of Parliament for those 
three months. I don't care what people do afterwards, because we 
always fly away on the first of August." 

" That is good-natured on your part." 

"I'm sure what I say would be for the good of society; but at 
this time of the year a dinner is warm and comfortable." 

" Very comfortable, I think." 

"And people get to know each other;" in saying which Miss 
Demolines looked very pleasantly up into Johnny's face. 

" There is a great deal in that," said he. " I wonder whether you 
and I will get to know each other ? " 

" Of course we shall ; that is, if I'm worth knowing." 

" There can be no doubt about that, I should say." 

" Time alone can tell. But, Mr. Eames, I see that Mr. Crosbie is 
a friend of yours." 

" Hardly a friend." 

"I know very well that men are friends when they step up and 
shake hands with each other. It is the same as when women kiss." 

" When I see women kiss, I always think that there is deep hatred 
at the bottom of it." 

" And there may be deep hatred between you and Mr. Crosbie for 
anything I know to the contrary," said Miss Demolines. 

" The very deepest," said Johnny, pretending to look grave. 

" Ah ; then I know he is your bosom friend, and that you will 
tell him anything I say. What a strange history that was of his 

" So I have heard ; but he is not quite bosom friend enough with 
me to have told me all the particulars. I know that his wife is dead." 

"Dead ; oh, yes ; she has been dead these two years I should say." 

"Not so long as that, I should think." 

" Well, perhaps not. But it's ever so long ago ; quite long 
enough for him to be married again. Did you know her ? " 

" I never saw her in my life." 

" I knew her, not well indeed ; but I am intimate with her sister, 
Lady Amelia Gazebee, and I have met her there. None of that family 
have married what you may call well. And now, Mr. Earnes, pray 
look at the menu and tell me what I am to eat. Arrange for me a 
little dinner of my own, out of the great bill of fare provided. I always 
expect some gentleman to do that for me. Mr. Crosbie, you know, 
only lived with his wife for one month." 

" So I've been told." 

IX. T 


" And a terrible month they had of it. I used to hear of it. He 
doesn't look that sort of man, does he ? " 

''Well; no. I don't think he does. But what sort of man do 
you mean ? " 

" Why, such a regular Bluebeard ! Of course you know how he 
treated another girl before he married Lady Alexandrina. She died of it, 
with a broken heart ; absolutely died ; and there he is, indifferent as pos- 
sible ; and would treat me in the same way to-morrow if I would let him." 

Johnny Eames, finding it impossible to talk to Miss Demolines 
about Lily Dale, took up the card of the dinner and went to work in 
earnest, recommending his neighbour what to eat and what to pass by. 
" But you've skipped the pate," she said, with energy. 

" Allow me to ask you to choose mine for me instead. You are 
much more fit to do it." And she did choose his dinner for him. 

They were sitting at a round table, and in order that the ladies and 
gentlemen should alternate themselves properly, Mr. Musselboro was 
opposite to the host. Next to him on his right was old Mrs. Van Siever, 
the widow of a Dutch merchant, who was very rich. She was a ghastly 
thing to look at, as well from the quantity as from the nature of the 
wiggeries which she wore. She had not only a false front, but long 
false curls, as to which it cannot be conceived that she would suppose 
that any one would be ignorant as to their falseness. She was very 
thin, too, and very small, and putting aside her wiggeries, you would 
think her to be all eyes. She was a ghastly old woman to the sight, 
and not altogether pleasant in her mode of talking. She seemed to know 
Mr. Musselboro very well, for she called him by his name without any 
prefix. He had, indeed, begun life as a clerk in her husband's office. 

" Why doesn't What's-his-name have real silver forks ? " she said 
to him. Now Mrs. What's-his-name, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton we will 
call her, was sitting on the other side of Mr. Musselboro, between 
him and Mr. Crosbie ; and, so placed, Mr. Musselboro found it rather 
hard to answer the question, more especially as he was probably aware 
that other questions would follow. 

" What's the v use ? " said Mr. Musselboro. " Everybody has these 
plated things now. What's the use of a lot of capital lying dead ? " 

" Everybody doesn't. I don't. You know as well as I do, Mussel- 
boro, that the appearance of the thing goes for a great deal. Capital 
isn't lying dead as long as people know that you've got it." 

Before answering this Mr. Musselboro was driven to reflect that Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton would probably hear his reply. " You won't find that 
there is any doubt on that head in the City as to Broughton," he said. 

" I shan't ask in the City, and if I did, I should not believe what 


people told me. I think there are sillier folks in the City than any- 
where else. What did he give for that picture upstairs which the 
young man painted ? " 

" What, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's portrait ? " 

" You don't call that a portrait, do you ? I mean the one with the 
three naked women?" Mr. Musselboro glanced round with one eye, 
and felt sure that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had heard the question. But 
the old woman was determined to have an answer. " How much did 
he give for it, Musselboro ? " 

" Six hundred pounds, I believe," said Mr. Musselboro, looking 
straight before him as he answered, and pretending to treat the subject 
with perfect indifference. 

" Did he indeed, now ? Six hundred pounds ! And yet he hasn't 
got silver spoons. How things are changed ! Tell me, Musselboro, 
who was that young man who came in with the painter ? " 

Mr. Musselboro turned round and asked Mrs. Broughton. " A 
Mr. John Eames, Mrs. Van Siever," said Mrs. Broughton, whispering 
across the front of Mr. Musselboro. " He is private secretary to Lord 
Lord Lord I forget who. Some one of the Ministers, I know. 
And he had a great fortune left him the other day by Lord Lord 
Lord somebody else." 

"All among the lords, I see," said Mrs. Van Siever. Then Mrs. 
Dobbs Broughton drew herself back, remembering some little attack 
which had been made on her by Mrs. Van Siever when she herself had 
had the real lord to dine with her. 

There was a Miss Van Siever there also, sitting between Crosbie 
and Conway Dalrymple. Conway Dalrymple had been specially brought 
there to sit next to Miss Van Siever. " There's no knowing how much 
she'll have," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, in the warmth of her friend- 
ship. " But it's all real. It is, indeed. The mother is awfully rich." 

"But she's awful in another way, too," said Dalrymple. 

" Indeed she is, Conway." Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had got into a 
way of calling her young friend by his Christian name. " All the world 
calls him Conway," she had said to her husband once when her husband 
caught her doing so. " She is awful. Her husband made the business 
in the City, when things were very different from what they are now, 
and I can't help having her. She has transactions of business with 
Dobbs. But there's no mistake about the money." 

" She needn't leave it to her daughter, I suppose ? " 

" But why shouldn't she ? She has nobody else. You might offer 
to paint her, you know. She'd make an excellent picture. So much 
character. You come and see her." 


Conway Dalrymple had expressed his willingness to meet Miss Van 
Siever, saying something, however, as to his present position being one 
which did not admit of any matrimonial speculation. Then Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton had told him, with much seriousness, that he was altogether 
wrong, and that were he to forget himself, or commit himself, or 
misbehave himself, there must be an end to their pleasant intimacy. 
In answer to which, Mr. Dalrymple had said that his Grace was surely 
of all Graces the least gracious. And now he had come to meet Miss 
Van Siever, and was seated next to her at table. 

Miss Van Siever, who at this time had perhaps reached her twenty- 
fifth year, was certainly a handsome young woman. She was fair 
and large, bearing no likeness whatever to her mother. Her features 
were regular, and her full, clear eyes had a brilliance of their own, 
looking at you always stedfastly and boldly, though very seldom 
pleasantly. Her mouth would have been beautiful had it not been too 
strong for feminine beauty. Her teeth were perfect, too perfect, 
looking like miniature walls of carved ivory. She knew the fault of 
this perfection, and shewed her teeth as little as she could. Her nose 
and chin were finely chiselled, and her head stood well upon her 
shoulders. But there was something hard about it all which repelled 
you. Dalrymple, when he saw her, recoiled from her, not outwardly, 
but inwardly. Yes, she was handsome, as may be a horse or a tiger ; 
but there was about her nothing of feminine softness. He could not 
bring himself to think of taking Clara Van Siever as the model that was 
to sit before him for the rest of his life. He certainly could make a 
picture of her, as had been suggested by his friend, Mrs. Broughton, 
but it must be as Judith with the dissevered head, or as Jael using her 
hammer over the temple of Sisera. Yes, he thought she would do as 
Jael ; and if Mrs. Van Siever would throw him a sugar-plum, for he 
would want the sugar-plum, seeing that any other result was out of the 
question, the thing might be done. Such was the idea of Mr. Conway 
Dalrymple respecting Miss Van Siever, before he led her down to 

' At first he found it hard to talk to her. She answered him, and 
not with monosyllables. But she answered him without sympathy, or 
apparent pleasure in talking.. Now the young artist was in the habit 
of being nattered by ladies, and expected to have his small talk made 
very easy for him. He liked to give himself little airs, and was not 
generally disposed to labour very hard at the task of making himself 

" Were you ever painted yet? " he asked her after they had both 
been sitting silent for two or three minutes. 


" Was I ever ever painted ? In what way ? " 

" I don't mean rouged, or enamelled, or got up by Madame Rachel; 
but have you ever had your portrait taken ? " 

" I have been photographed, of course." 

" That's why I asked you if you had been painted, so as to make 
some little distinction between the two. I am a painter by profession, 
and do portraits." 

" So Mrs. Broughton told me." 

" I am not asking for a job, you know." 

" I am quite sure of that." 

" But I should have thought you would have been sure to have sat 
to somebody." 

" I never did. I never thought of doing so. One does those things 
at the instigation of one's intimate friends, fathers, mothers, uncles, 
and aunts, and the like." 

" Or husbands, perhaps, or lovers ? " 

" Well, yes ; my intimate friend is my mother, and she would 
never dream of such a thing. She hates pictures." 

" Hates pictures ! " 

"And especially portraits. And I'm afraid, Mr. Dalrymple, she 
hates artists." 

" Good heavens ; how cruel ! I suppose there is some story 
attached to it. There has been some fatal likeness, some terrible 
picture, something in her early days ? " 

" Nothing of the kind, Mr. Dalrymple. It is merely the fact that 
her sympathies are with ugly things, rather than with pretty things. I 
think she loves the mahogany dinner-table better than anything else in 
the house ; and she likes to have everything dark, and plain, and solid. 

" And good ? " 

" Good of its kind, certainly." 

" If everybody was like your mother, how would the artists live ? " 

" There would be none." 

" And the world, you think, would be none the poorer ? " 

" I did not speak of myself. I think the world would be very 
much the poorer. I am very fond of the ancient masters, though I do 
not suppose that I understand them." 

" They are easier understood than the modern, I can tell you. 
Perhapsiyou don't care for modern pictures ? " 

" Not in comparison, certainly. If that is uncivil, you have brought 
it on yourself. But I do not in truth mean anything derogatory to the 
painters of the day. When their pictures are old, they, that is the 
good ones among them, will be nice also." 


" Pictures are like wine, and want age, you think ? " 

" Yes, and statues too, and buildings above all things. The colours 
of new paintings are so glaring, and the faces are so bright and self- 
conscious, that they look to me when I go to the exhibition like coloured 
prints in a child's new picture-book. It is the same thing with buildings. 
One sees all the points, and nothing is left to the imagination." 

" I find I have come across a real critic." 

" I hope, at any rate, I am not a sham one ; " and Miss Van Siever 
as she said this looked very savage. 

" I shouldn't take you to be a sham in anything." 

4 'Ah, that would be saying a great deal for myself. Who can 
undertake to say that he is not a sham in anything ? " 

As she said this the ladies were getting up. So Miss Van Siever 
also got up, and left Mr. Conway Dalrymple to consider whether he 
could say or could think of himself that he was not a sham in anything. 
As regarded Miss Clara Van Siever, he began to think that he should 
not object to paint her portrait, even though there might be no sugar- 
plum. He would certainly do it as Jael ; and he would, if he dared, 
insert dimly in the background some idea of the face of the mother, 
half-appearing, half-vanishing, as the spirit of the sacrifice. He was 
composing his picture, while Mr. Dobbs Broughton was arranging himself 
and his bottles. 

" Musselboro," he said, "I'll come up between you and Crosbie. 
Mr. Eames, though I run away from you, the claret shall remain ; or, 
rather, it shall flow backwards and forwards as rapidly as you will." 

" I'll keep it moving," said Johnny. 

" Do ; there's a good fellow. It's a nice glass of wine, isn't it ? 
Old Eamsby, who keeps as good a stock of stuff as any wine-merchant 
in London, gave me a hint, three or four years ago, that he'd a lot of 
tidy Bordeaux. It's '41, you know. He had ninety dozen, and I 
took it all." 

" What was the figure, Broughton ? " said Crosbie, asking the 
question which he knew was expected. 

" Well, I only gave one hundred and four for it then ; it's worth 
a hundred and twenty now. I wouldn't sell a bottle of it for any 
money. Come, Dalrymple, pass it round ; but fill your glass first." 

" Thank you, no ; I don't like it. I'll drink sherry." 

" Don't like it ! " said Dobbs Broughton. 

" It's strange, isn't it ? but I don't." 

"I thought you particularly told me to drink his claret?" said 
Johnny to his friend afterwards. 

" So I did," said Conway ; " and wonderfully good wine it is. But 


I make it a rule never to eat or drink anything in a man's house when 
he praises it himself and tells me the price of it." 

" And I make it a rule never to cut the nose off my own face," 
said Johnny. 

Before they went, Johnny Eames had been specially invited to 
call on Lady Demolines, and had said that he would do so. " We 
live in Porchester Gardens," said Miss Demolines. " Upon my word, 
I believe that the farther London stretches in that direction, the 
farther mamma will go. She thinks the air so much better. I know 
it's a long way." 

"Distance is nothing to me," said Johnny; "I can always set off 
over night." 

Conway Dalrymple did not get invited to call on Mrs. Van Siever, 
but before he left the house he did say a word or two more to his friend 
Mrs. Broughton as to Clara Van Siever. " She is a fine young woman," 
he said ; " she is indeed." 

" You have found it out, have you ? " 

" Yes, I have found it out. I do not doubt that some day she'll 
murder her husband or her mother, or startle the world by some newly- 
invented crime ; but that only makes her the more interesting." 

"And when you add to that all the old woman's money," said 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, " you think that she might do ? " 

" For a picture, certainly. I'm speaking of her simply as a model. 
Could we not manage it ? Get her once here, without her mother 
knowing it, or Broughton, or any one. I've got the subject, Jael and 
Sisera, you know. I should like to put Musselboro in as Sisera, with 
the nail half driven in." Mrs. Dobbs Broughton declared that the 
scheme was a great deal too wicked for her participation, but at last she 
promised to think of it. 

" You might as well come up and have a cigar," Dalrymple said, as 
he and his friend left Mr. Broughton's house. Johnny said that he 
would go up and have a cigar or two. "And now tell me what you 
think of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton and her set," said Conway. 

" Well ; I'll tell you what I think of them. I think they stink of 
money, as the people say ; but I'm not sure that they've got any all 
the same." 

" I should suppose he makes a large income." 

" Very likely, and perhaps spends more than he makes. A good 
deal of it looked to me like make-believe. There's no doubt about the 
claret, but the champagne was execrable. A man is a criminal to have 
such stuff handed round to his guests. And there isn't the ring of real 
gold about the house.'* 


" I hate the ring of the gold, as you call it," said the artist. 

" So do I, I hate it like poison ; but if it is there, I like it to be 
true. There is a sort of persons going now, and one meets them out 
here and there every day of one's life, who are downright Brummagem 
to the ear and to the touch and to the sight, and we recognize them as 
such at the very first moment. My honoured lord and master, Sir 
Baffle, is one such. There is no mistaking him. Clap him down 
upon the counter, and he rings dull and untrue at once. Pardon me, 
my dear Conway, if I say the same of your excellent friend Mr. Dobbs 

"I think you go a little too far, but I don't deny it. What you 
mean is, that he's not a gentleman." 

"I mean a great deal more than that. Bless you, when you come 
to talk of a gentleman, who is to define the word ? How do I know 
whether or no I'm a gentleman myself. When I used to be in Burton 
Orescent, I was hardly a gentleman then, sitting at the same table 
with Mrs Roper and the Lupexes ; do you remember them, and the 
lovely Amelia ? " 

"I suppose you were a gentleman, then, as well as now." 

"You, if you had been painting duchesses then, with a studio in 
Kensington Gardens, would not have said so, if you had happened to 
come across me. I can't define a gentleman, even in my own mind ; 
but I can define the sort of man with whom I think I can live 

" And poor Dobbs doesn't come within the line ?" 

" N o, not quite ; a very nice fellow, I'm quite sure, and I'm very 
much obliged to you for taking me there." 

" I never will take you to any house again. And what did you 
think of his wife ?" 

" That's a horse of another colour altogether. A pretty woman 
with such a figure as hers has got a right to be anything she pleases. 
I see you are a great favourite." 

" No, I'm not ; not especially. I do like her. She wants to make 
up a match between me and that Miss Van Siever. Miss Van is to 
have gold by the ingot, and jewels by the bushel, and a hatful of bank 
shares, and a whole mine in Cornwall, for her fortune." 

" And is very handsome into the bargain." 

" Yes ; she's handsome." 

" So is her mother," said Johnny. " If you take the daughter, I'll 
take the mother, and see if I can't do you out of a mine or two. Good- 
night, old fellow. I'm only joking about old Dobbs. I'll go and dine 
there again to-morrow, if you like it." 



ON'T think you care two straws 
about her," Conway Dalrymple 
said to his friend John Eaines, 
two days after the dinner-party 
at Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's. 
The painter was at work in his 
studio, and the private secre- 
tary from the Income-tax Office, 
who was no doubt engaged on 
some special mission to the 
West End on the part of Sir 
Raffle Buffle, was sitting in a 
lounging-chair and smoking a 

" Because I don't go about 
with my stockings cross -gar- 
tered, and do that kind of 
business ?'\ 

"Well, yes; because you don't do that kind of business, more 
or less." 

" It isn't in my line, my dear fellow. I know what you mean, very 
well. I daresay, artistically speaking, 
" Don't be an ass, Johnny." 

" Well then, poetically, or romantically, if you like that better, 
I daresay that poetically or romantically I am deficient. I eat my 
dinner very well, and I don't suppose I ought to do that ; and, if you'll 
believe me, I find myself laughing sometimes." 

"I never knew a man who laughed so much. You're always 

" And that, you think, is a bad sign ? " 

" I don't believe you really care about her. I think you are aware 

that you have got a love-affair on hand, and that you hang on to it rather 

persistently, having in some way come to a resolution that you would be 

persistent. But there isn't much heart in it. I daresay there was once." 

x, u 


" And that is your opinion ?" 

" You are just like some of those men who for years past have 
been going to write a book on some new subject. The intention has 
been sincere at first, and it never altogether dies away. But the would- 
be author, though he still talks of his work, knows that it will never be 
executed, and is very patient under the disappointment. All enthu- 
siasm about the thing is gone, but he is still known as the man who is 
going to do it some day. You are the man who means to marry 
Miss Dale in five, ten, or twenty years' time." 

" Now, Con way, all that is thoroughly unfair. The would-be 
author talks of his would-be book to everybody. I have never talked 
of Miss Dale to any one but you, and one or two very old family friends. 
And from year to year, and from month to month, I have done all that 
has been in my power to win her. I don't think I shall ever succeed, 
and yet I am as determined about it as I was when I first began it, 
or rather much more so. If I do not many Lily, I shall never marry 
at all, and if anybody were to tell me to-morrow that she had made up 
her mind to have me, I should well nigh go mad for joy. But I am 
not going to give up all my life for love. Indeed the less I can bring 
myself to give up for it, the better I shall think of myself. Now I'll 
go away and call on old lady Demolines. 

" And flirt with her daughter." 

" Yes ; flirt with her daughter, if I get the opportunity. Why 
shouldn't I flirt with her daughter ? " 

" Why not, if you like it ? " 

" I don't like it, not particularly, that is ; because the young lady 
is not very pretty, nor yet very graceful, nor yet very wise." 

" She is pretty after a fashion," said the artist, " and if not wise, 
she is at any rate clever." 

" Nevertheless, I do not like her," said John Eames. 

" Then why do you go there ? " 

" One has to be civil to people though they are neither pretty nor 
wise. 1 don't mean to insinuate that Miss Demolines is particularly 
bad, or indeed that she is worse than young ladies in general. I only 
abused her because there was an insinuation in what you said, that I 
was going to amuse myself with Miss Demolines in the absence of Miss 
Dale. The one thing has nothing to do with the other thing. Nothing 
that I shall say to Miss Demolines will at all militate against my loyalty 
to Lily." 

" All right, old fellow ; I didn't mean to put you on your purgation. 
I want you to look at that sketch. Do you know for whom it is 


intended ? " Johnny took up a scrap of paper, and having scrutinized 
it for a minute or tv, r o declared that he had not the slightest idea who 
was represented. " You know the subject, the story that is intended 
to be told ? " said Dalrymple. 

" Upon my word I don't. There's some old fellow seems to be 
catching it over the head ; but it's all so confused I can't make much 
of it. The woman seems to be uncommon angry." 

" Do you ever read your Bible ? " 

" Ah, dear ! not as often as I ought to do. Ah, I see ; it's Sisera. 
I never could quite believe that story. Jael might have killed Captain 
Sisera in his sleep, for which, by-the-by, she ought to have been 
hung, and she might possibly have done it with a hammer and a nail. 
But she could not have driven it through, and staked him to the 

" I've warrant enough for putting it into a picture, at any rate. 
My Jael there is intended for Miss Van Siever." 

" Miss Van Siever ! Well, it is like her. Has she sat for it ? " 

" dear, no ; not yet. I mean to get her to do so. There's a 
strength about her, which would make her sit the part admirably. And 
I fancy she would like to be driving a nail into a fellow's head. I think 
I shall take Musselboro for a Sisera." 

" You're not in earnest ? " 

" He would just do for it. But of course I shan't ask him to sit, 
as my Jael would not like it. She would not consent to operate on so 
base a subject. So you really are going down to Guestwick ? " 

"Yes; I start to-morrow. Good-by, old fellow. I'll come and 
sit for Sisera if you'll let me ; only Miss Van Jael shall have a blunted 
nail, if you please." 

Then Johnny left the artist's room and walked across from Kensington 
to Lady Demolines' house. As he went he partly accused himself, and 
partly excused himself in that matter of his love for Lily Dale. There 
were moments of his life in which he felt that he would willingly die 
for her, that life was not worth having without her, in which he 
went about inwardly reproaching fortune for having treated him so 
cruelly. - Why should she not be his ? He half believed that she 
loved him. She had almost told him so. She could not surely still 
love that other man who had treated her with such vile falsehood ? As 
he considered the question in all its bearings he assured himself over 
and over again that there would be now no fear of that rival ; and yet 
he had such fears, and hated Crosbie almost as much as ever. It was 
a thousand pities, certainly, that the man should have been made free 

u 2 


by the death of his wife. But it could hardly be that he should seek 
Lily again, or that Lily, if so sought, should even listen to him. But 
yet there he was, free once more, an odious being, whom Johnny was 
determined to sacrifice to his vengeance, if cause for such sacrifice 
should occur. And thus thinking of the real truth of his love, he 
endeavoured to excuse himself to himself from that charge of vagueness 
and laxness which his friend Conway Dalrymple had brought against 
him. And then again he accused himself of the same sin. If he had 
been positively in earnest, with downright manly earnestness, would he 
have allowed the thing to drag itself on with a weak uncertain life, as 
it had done for the last two or three years ? Lily Dale had been a 
dream to him in his boyhood ; and he had made a reality of his dream 
as soon as he had become a man. But before he had been able, as 
a man, to tell his love to the girl whom he had loved as a child, 
another man had intervened, and his prize had been taken from him. 
Then the wretched victor had thrown his treasure away, and he, John 
Eames, had been content to stoop to pick it up, was content to do 
so now. But there was something which he felt to be unmanly in the 
constant stooping. Dalrymple had told him that . he was like a man 
who is ever writing a book and yet never writes it. He would make 
another attempt to get his book written, an attempt into which he 
would throw all his strength and all his heart. He would do his veiy 
best to make Lily his own. But if he failed now, he would have done 
with it. It seemed to him to be below his dignity as a man to be 
always coveting a thing which he could not obtain. 

Johnny was informed by the boy in buttons, who opened the door 
for him at Lady Demolines', that the ladies were at home, and. he was 
shown up into the drawing-room. Here he was allowed full ten minutes 
to explore the knicknacks on the table, and open the photograph book, 
and examine the furniture, before Miss Demolines made her appearance. 
When she did come, her hair was tangled more marvellously even than 
when he saw her at the dinner-party, and her eyes were darker, and 
hei cheeks thinner. " I'm afraid mamma won't be able to come down," 
said Miss Demolines. " She will be so sorry; but she is not quite 
well to-day. The wind is in the east, she says, and when she says the 
wind is in the east she always refuses to be well." 

" Then I should tell her it was in the west." 

" But it is in the east." 

" Ah, there I can't help you, Miss Demolines. I never know which 
is east, and which west ; and if I did, I shouldn't know from which 
point the wind blew." 


" At any rate mamma can't come downstairs, and you must excuse 
her. What a very nice woman Mrs. Dobbs Broughton is." Johnny 
acknowledged that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was charming. "And 
Mr. Broughton is so good-natured!" Johnny again assented. "I 
like him of all things," said Miss Demolines. " So do I," said Johnny ; 
" I never liked anybody so much in my life. I suppose one is bound 
to say that kind of thing." " Oh, you ill-natured man," said Miss 
Demolines. " I suppose you think that poor Mr. Broughton is a little 
just a little, you know whai I mean." 

"Not exactly," said Johnny. 

' " Yes, you do ; you know very well what I mean. And of course 
he is. How can he help it ? " 

"Poor fellow, no. I don't suppose he can help it, or he would; 
wouldn't he ? " 

" Of course Mr. Broughton had not the advantage of birth or much 
early education. All his friends know that, and make allowance 
accordingly. When she married him, she was aware of his deficiency, 
and made up her mind to put up with it." 

" It was very kind of her ; don't you think so ? " 

" I knew Maria Clutterbuck for years before she was married. Of 
course she was very much my senior, but, nevertheless, we were friends. 
I think I was hardly more than twelve years old when I first began to 
correspond with Maria. She was then past twenty. So you see, 
Mr. Eames, I make no secret of my age." 

" Why should you ? " 

" But never mind that. Everybody knows that Maria Clutterbuck 
was very much admired. Of course I'm not going to tell you or any 
other gentleman all her history." 

" I was in hopes you were." 

" Then certainly your hopes will be frustrated, Mr. Eames. But un- 
doubtedly when she told us that she was going to take Dobb Broughton, 
we were a little disappointed. Maria Clutterbuck had been used to a 
better kind of life. You understand what I mean, Mr. Eames ? " 

" Oh, exactly ; and yet it's not a bad kind of life, either." 

"No, no; that is true. It has its attractions. She keeps her 
carriage, sees a good deal of company, has an excellent house, and goes 
abroad for six weeks every year. But you know, Mr. Eames, there is, 
perhaps, a little uncertainty about it." 

" Life is always uncertain, Miss Demolines." 

" You're quizzing now, I know. But don't yon feel now, really, 
that City money is always very chancy ? It comes and goes so quick." 


"As regards the going, I think that's the same with all money," 
said Johnny. 

" Not with land, or the funds. Mamma has every shilling laid out 
in a first- class mortgage on land at four per cent. That does make 
one feel so secure ! The land can't run away." 

" But you think poor Broughton's money may ? " 

"It's all speculation, you know. I don't believe she minds it ; I 
don't, indeed. She lives that kind of fevered life now that she likes 
excitement. Of course we all know that Mr. Dobbs Broughton is not 
what we can call an educated gentleman. His manners are against 
him, and he is very ignorant. Even dear Maria would admit that." 

" One would perhaps let that pass without asking her opinion at all." 

" She has acknowledged it to me, twenty times. But he is very 
good-natured, and lets her do pretty nearly anything that she likes. I 
only hope she won't trespass on his good-nature. I do, indeed." 

" You mean, spend too much money ? " 

" No ; I didn't mean that exactly. Of course she ought to be 
moderate, and I hope she is. To that kind of fevered existence profuse 
expenditure is perhaps necessary. But I was thinking of something 
else. I fear she is a little giddy." 

" Dear me ! I should have thought she was too too too " 

" You mean too old for anything of that kind. Maria Broughton 
must be thirty-three if she's a day." 

" That would make you just twenty-five," said Johnny, feeling 
perfectly sure as he said so that the lady whom he was addressing was 
at any rate pas! thirty ! 

" Never mind my age, Mr. Eames ; whether I am twenty-five, or a 
hundred- and-five, has nothing to do with poor Maria Clutterbuck. But 
now I'll tell you why I mention all this to you. You must have seen 
Low foolish she is about your friend Mr. Dalrymple ? " 

" Upon my word, I haven't." 

"Nonsense, Mr. Eames ; you have. If she were your wife, would 
you like her to call a man Conway ? Of course you would not. I 
don't mean to say that there's anything in it. I know Maria's principles 
too well to suspect that. It's merely because she's flighty and fevered." 

" That fevered existence accounts for it all," said Johnny. 

" No doubt it does," said Miss Demolines, with a nod of her head, 
which was intended to show that she was willing to give her friend the 
full benefit of any excuse which could be offered for her. " But don't 
you think you could do something, Mr. Eames." 

" I do something?" 


" Yes, yon. You and Mr. Dalrymple are such friends ! If you 
were just to point out to him you know " 

" Point out what ? Tell him that he oughtn't to be called Conway ? 
Because, after all, I suppose that's the worst of it. If you mean to 
say that Dalrymple is in love with Mrs. Broughton, you never made a 
greater mistake in your life." 

" Oh, no ; not in love. That would be terrible, you know." And 
Miss Demolines shook her head sadly. " But there may be so much 
mischief done without anything of that kind ! Thoughtlessness, you 
know, Mr. Eames, pure thoughtlessness ! Think of what I have said, 
and if you can speak a word to your friend, do. And now I want to 
ask you something else. I'm so glad you are come, because circum- 
stances have seemed to make it necessary that you and I should know 
each other. We may be of* so much use if we put our heads together." 
Johnny bowed when he heard this, but made no immediate reply. 
" Have you heard anything about a certain picture that is being 
planned?" Johnny did not wish to answer this question, but Miss 
Demolines paused so long, and looked so earnestly into his face, that 
he found himself forced to say something. 

" What picture ? " 

" A certain picture that is , or, perhaps, that is not to be, painted 
by Mr. Dalrymple ? " 

" I hear so much about Dalrymple's pictures ! You don't mean the 
portrait of Lady Glencorn Palliser ? That is nearly finished, and will 
be in the Exhibition this year." 

" I don't mean that at all. I mean a picture that has not yet 
been begun." 

" A portrait, I suppose ? " 

" As to that I cannot quite say. It is at any rate to be a likeness. 
I am sure you have heard of it. Come, Mr. Eames ; it would be better 
that we should be candid with each other. You remember Miss Yan 
Siever, of course ? " 

" I remember that she dined at the Broughtons'." 

" And you have heard of Jael, I suppose, and Sisera ? " 

" Yes ; in a general way, in the Bible." 

" And now will you tell me whether you have not heard the names 
of Jael and Miss Yan Siever coupled together ? I see you know all 
about it." 

" I have heard of it, certainly." 

" Of course you have. So have I, as you perceive. Now, Mr. 
Eames," and Miss Demolines' voice became tremulously eager as she 


addressed him, " it is your duty, and it is my duty, to take care that 
that picture shall never be painted." 

" But why should it not be painted ? " 

" You don't know Miss Van Siever, yet." 

" Not in the least." 

" Nor Mrs. Van Siever." 

" I never spoke a word to her." 

" I do. I know them both, well." There was something almost 
grandly -tragic in Miss Demolines' voice as she thus spoke. " Yes, 
Mr. Eames, I know them well. If that scheme be continued, it will 
work terrible mischief. You and 1 must prevent it." 

" But I don't see what harm it will do." 

" Think of Conway Dalrymple passing so many hours in Maria's 
sitting-room upstairs ! The picture is to be painted there, you know." 

" But Miss Van Siever will be present. Won't that make it all 
right ? What is there wrong about Miss Van Siever ? " 

" I won't deny that Clara Van Siever has a certain beauty of her 
own. To me she is certainly the most unattractive woman that I ever 
came near. She is simply repulsive ! " Hereupon Miss Demolines 
held up her hand as though she were banishing Miss Van Siever for 
ever from her sight, and shuddered slightly. " Men think her hand- 
some, and she is handsome. But she is false, covetous, malicious, cruel, 
and dishonest." 

" What a fiend in petticoats ! " 

" You may say that, Mr. Eames. And then her mother ! Her 
mother is not so bad. Her mother is very different. But the mother 
is an odious woman, too. It was an evil day for Maria Clutterbuck 
when she first saw either the mother or the daughter. I tell you that 
in confidence." 

" But what can I do ? " said Johnny, who began to be startled and 
almost interested by the eagerness of the woman. 

" I'll tell you what you can do. Don't let your friend go to 
Mr. Broughton's house to paint the picture. If he does do it, there 
will mischief come of it. Of course you can prevent him." 

" I should not think of trying to prevent him unless I knew why." 

" She's a nasty proud minx, and it would set her up ever so high, 
to think that she was being painted by Mr. Dalrymple ! But that isn't 
the reason. Maria would get into terrible trouble about it, and there 
would be no end of mischief. I must not tell you more now, and if 
you do not believe me, I cannot help it. Surely, Mr. Eames, my word 
may be taken as going for something ? And when I ask you to help me 


in this, I do expect that you will not refuse me." By this time Miss 
Demolines was sitting close to him, and had more than once put her 
hand upon his arm in the energy of her eloquence. Then as he 
remembered that he had never seen Miss Demolines till the other day, 
or Miss Van Siever, or even Mrs. Dobbs Brougffton, he bethought 
himself that it was all very droll. Nevertheless he had no objection to 
Miss Demolines putting her hand upon his arm. 

" I never like to interfere in anything that does not seem to be my 
own business," said Johnny. 

" Is not your friend's business your own business? What does 
friendship mean if it is not so ? And when I tell } T OU that it is my 
business, mine of right, does that go for nothing with you ? I thought 
I might depend upon you, Mr. Eames ; I did indeed." Then again she 
put her hand upon his arm, and as he looked into her eyes he began to 
think that after all she was good-looking in a certain way. At any 
rate she had fine eyes, and there was something picturesque about the 
entanglement of her hair. " Think of it, and then come back and talk 
to me again,"' said Miss Demolines. 

" But I am going out of town to-morrow." 

" For how long ?" 

" For ten days." 

" Nothing can be done during that time. Clara Van Siever is 
going away in a day, and will not be back for three weeks. I happen 
to know that ; so we have plenty of time for working. It would be veiy 
desirable that she should never even hear of it ; but that cannot be hoped, 
as Maria has such a tongue ! Couldn't you see Mr. Dalrymple to-night ?" 

" Well, no ; I don't think I could." 

" Mind, at least, that you come to me as soon as ever you return." 

Before he got out of the house, which he did after a most affectionate 
farewell, Johnny felt himself compelled to promise that he would come 
to Miss Demolines again as soon as he got back to town ; and as the 
door was closed behind him by the boy in buttons, he made up his 
mind that he certainly would call as soon as he returned to London. 
"It's as good as a play," he said to himself. Not that he cared in the 
least for Miss Demolines, or that he would take any steps with the 
intention of preventing the painting of the picture. Miss Demolines 
had some battle to fight, and he would leave her to fight it with her own 
weapons. If his friend chose to paint a picture of Jael, and take Miss 
Van Siever as a model, it wag no business of his. Nevertheless he 
would certainly go and see Miss Demolines again, because, as he said, 
she was as good as a play. 


ON that same afternoon Conway Dalrymple rolled up his sketch of Jael 
and Sisera, put it into his pocket, dressed himself with some consider- 
able care, putting on a velvet coat which he was in the habit of wearing 
out of doors when he did not intend to wander beyond Kensington 
Gardens and the neighbourhood and which was supposed to become 
him well, yellow gloves, and a certain Spanish hat of which he was 
fond, and slowly sauntered across to the house of his friend Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton. When the door was opened to him he did not ask if the 
lady were at home, but muttering some word to the servant, made his 
way through the hall, upstairs, to a certain small sitting-room looking to 
the north, which was much used by the mistress of the house. It Yv r as 
quite clear that Conway Dalrymple had arranged his visit beforehand, 
and that he was expected. He opened the door without knocking, 
and, though the servant had followed him, he entered without being 
announced. "I'm afraid I'm late," he said, as he gave his hand to 
Mrs". Broughton ; " but for the life I could not get away sooner." 

" You are quite in time," said the lady, " for any good that you are 
likely to do." 

" What does that mean ? " 

" It means this, my Mend, that you had better give the idea up. 
I have been thinking of it all day, and I do not approve of it." 

" What nonsense ! " 

" Of course you will say so, Conway. I have observed of late that 
whatever I say to you is called nonsense. I suppose it is the new 
fashion that gentlemen should so express themselves, but I am not quite 
sure that I like it." 

" You know what I mean. I am very anxious about this picture, 
and I shall be much disappointed if it cannot be done now. It was 
you put it into my head first." 

"I regret it very much, I can assure you; but it will not be 
generous in you to urge that against me." 

" But why shouldn't it succeed ? " 

" There are many reasons, some personal to myself." 

" I do not know what they can be. You hinted at something -which 
I only took as having been said in joke." 


" If you mean about Miss Van Siever and yourself, I was quite in 
earnest, Conway. I do not think you could do better, and I should be 
glad to see it of all things. Nothing would please me more than to 
bring Miss Van Siever and you together." 

" And nothing would please me less." 

" But why so ? " 

" Because, because . I can do nothing but tell you the truth, 

carina; because my heart is not free to present itself at Miss Van 
Siever's feet." 

" It ought to be free, Conway, and you must make it free. It will 
be well that you should be married, and well for others besides yourself. 
I tell you so as your friend, and you have no truer friend. Sit where 
you are, if you please. You can say anything you have to say without 
stalking about the room." 

" I was not going to stalk, as you call it." 

" You will be safer and quieter while you are sitting. I heard a 
knock at the door, and I do not doubt that it is Clara. She said she 
would be here." 

" And you have told her of the picture ? " 

" Yes ; I have told her. She said that it would be impossible, and 
that her mother would not allow it. Here she is." Then Miss Van 
Siever was shown into the room, and Dalrymple perceived that she was 
a girl the peculiarity of whose complexion bore daylight better even than 
candlelight. There was something in her countenance which seemed to 
declare that she could bear any light to which it might be subjected 
without flinching from it. And her bonnet, which was very plain, and 
her simple brown morning gown, suited her well. She was one who 
required none of the circumstances of studied dress to carry off aught 
in her own appearance. She could look her best when othej women 
look their worst, and could dare to be seen at all times. Dalrymple, 
with an artist's eye, saw this at once, and immediately confessed to 
himself that there was something great about her. He could not deny 
her beauty. But there was ever present to him that look of hardness 
which had struck him when he first saw her. He could not but fancy 
that though at times she might be playful, and allow the fur of her 
coat to be stroked with good-humour, she would be a dangerous play- 
thing, using her claws unpleasantly when the good-humour should have 
passed away. But not the less was she beautiful, and beyond that 
and better than that, for his purpose, she was picturesque. 

" Clara," said Mrs. Broughton, "here is this mad painter, and he says 
that he will have you on his canvas, either with your will or without it." 


" Even if he could do that, I am sure he would not," said Miss 
Van Siever. 

" To prove to you that I can, I think I need only show you the 
sketch," said Dalrymple, taking the drawing out of his pocket. "As 
regards the face, I know it so well by heart already, that I feel certain 
I could produce a likeness without even a sitting. What do you think 
of it, Mrs. Broughton ? " 

" It is clever," said she, looking at it with all that enthusiasm which 
women are able to throw into their eyes on such occasions; "very 
clever. The subject would just suit her. I have never doubted that." 
" Eames says that it is confused," said the artist. 
" I don't see that at all," said Mrs. Broughton. 
" Of course a sketch must be rough. This one has been rubbed 
about and altered, but I think there is something in it." 

"An immense deal," said Mrs. Broughton. "Don't you think 
so, Clara ? " 

"I am not a judge." 

" But you can see the woman's fixed purpose ; and her stealthiness 
as well ; and the man sleeps like a log. What is that dim outline ? " 
" Nothing in particular," said Dalrymple. But the dim outline 
was intended to represent Mrs. Van Siever. 

"It is very good, unquestionably good," said Mrs. Dobbs 
Bi'oughton. " I do not for a moment doubt that you would make a 
great picture of it. It is just the subject for you, Conway ; so much 
imagination, and yet such a scope for portraiture. It would be full of 
action, and yet such perfect repose. And the lights and shadows would 
be exactly in your line. I can see at a glance how you would manage 
the light in the tent, and bring it down just on the nail. And then the 
pose of the woman would be so good, so much strength, and yet such 
grace ! You should have the bowl he drank the milk out of, so as to 
tell the whole story. No painter living tells a story so well as you do, 
Conway." Conway Dalrymple knew that the woman was talking non- 
sense to him, and yet he liked it, and liked her for talking it. 

"But Mr. Dalrymple can paint his Sisera without making me a 
Jael," said Miss Van Siever. 

" Of course he can," said Mrs. Broughton. 

" But I never will," said the artist. " I conceived the subject as 
connected with you, and I will never disjoin the two ideas." 

"I think it no compliment, I can assure you," said Miss Van 

" And none was intended. But you may observe that artists in all 



ages have sought for higher types of models in painting women who 
have been violent or criminal, than have sufficed for them in their 
portraitures of gentleness and virtue. Look at all the Judiths, and the 
Lucretias, and the Charlotte Cordays ; how much finer the women are 
than the Madonnas and the Saint Cecilias. 

k " After that, Clara, you need not scruple to be a Jael," said Mrs. 

"But I do scruple, very much; so strongly that I know I never 
shall do it. In the first place I don't know why Mr. Dalrymple wants it." 

" Want it ! " said Conway. " I want to paint a striking picture." 

" But you can do that without putting me into it." 

" No ; not this picture. And why should you object ? It is the 
commonest thing in the world for ladies to sit to artists in that 

" People would know it." 

" Nobody would know it, so that you need care about it. What 
would it matter if everybody knew it ? We are not proposing anything 
improper; are we, Mrs. Broughton? " 

" She shall not be pressed if she does not like it," said Mrs. 
Broughton. " You know I told you before Clara came in, that I was 
afraid it could not be done." 

" And I don't like it," said Miss Van Siever, with some little 
hesitation in her voice. 

"I don't see anything improper in it, if you mean that," said 
Mrs. Broughton. 

" But, mamma ! " 

" Well, yes ; that is the difficulty, no doubt. The only question is, 
whether your mother is not so very singular, as to make it impossible 
that you should comply with her in everything." 

" I am afraid that I do not comply with her in very much," said 
Miss Van Siever in her gentlest voice. 

"Oh, Clara!" 

"You drive me to say so, as otherwise I should be a hypocrite. 
Of course I ought not to have said it before Mr. Dalrymple." 

" You and Mr. Dalrymple will understand all about that, I daresay, 
before the picture is finished," said Mrs. Broughton. 

It did not take much persuasion on the part of Conway Dalrymple 
to get the consent of the younger lady to be painted, or of the elder 
to allow the sitting to go on in her room. When the question of 
easels and other apparatus came to be considered Mrs. Broughton was 
rather flustered, and again declared with energy that the whole thing 


must fall to the ' ground ; but a few more words from the painter 
restored her, and at last the arrangement^were made. As Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton's dear friend, Madalina Demolines had said, Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton liked'a fevered existence. " What will Dobbs say?" sho 
exclaimed more than once. And it was decided at last that Dobbs 
should know nothing about it as long as it could be kept from him,. 
" Of course he shall be told at last," said his wife. " I wouldn't keep 
anything from the dear fellow for all the world. But if he knew it at 
first it would be sure to get through Musselboro to your mother." 

"I certainly shall beg that Mr. Broughton may not be taken into 
confidence if Mr. Musselboro is to follow," said Clara. " And it must 
be understood that I must cease to sit immediately, whatever may be 
the inconvenience, should mamma speak to me about it." 

This stipulation was made and conceded, and then Miss Van Siever 
went away, leaving the artist with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. " And now, 
if you please, Conway, you had better go too," said the lady, as soon 
as there had been time for Miss Van >iever to get downstairs and out 
of the hall- door. 

" Of course you are in a hurry to get rid of me." 

" Yes, I am." ' 

" A little while ago I improperly said that some suggestion of yours 
was nonsense and you rebuked me for my blunt incivility. Might not 
I rebuke you now with equal justice ? " 

"Do so, if you will; but leave me. I tell you, Conway, that in 
these matters you must either be guided by me, or you and I must 
cease to see each other. It does not do that you should remain here 
with me longer than the time usually allowed for a morning call. 
Clara has come and gone, and you also must go. I am sorry to dis- 
turb you, for you seem to be so very comfortable in that chair." 

"I am comfortable, and I can look at you. Come; there can 
be no harm in saying that, if I say nothing else. Well ; there, now I 
am gone." Whereupon he got up from his arm-chair." 

" But you are not gone while you stand there." 

" And you would really wish me to many that girl ? " 

" I do, if you can love her." 

" And what about her love ? " 

" You must win it, of course. She is to be won, like any other 
woman. The fruit won't fall into your mouth merely because you open 
your lips. You must climb the tree." 

" Still climbing trees in the Hesperides," said Conway. "Love 
does that, you know ; but it is hard to climb the trees without the love. 


It seems to me that I have done my climbing, have clomb as high as 
I knew how, and that the boughs are breaking with me, and that I am 
likely to get a fall. Do you understand me ? " 

" I would rather not understand you." 

11 That is no answer to my question. Do you understand that at 
this moment I am getting a fall which will break every bone in my skin 
and put any other climbing out of the question as far as I am con- 
cerned ? Do you understand that ? " 

" No ; I do not," said Mrs. Broughton, in a tremulous voice. 

" Then I'll go and make love at once to Clara Van Siever. There's 
enough of pluck left in me to ask her to marry me, and I suppose I 
could manage to go through the ceremony if she accepted me." 

" But I want you to love her," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. 

" I daresay I should love her well enough after a bit ; that is, if she 
didn't break my head or comb my hair. I suppose there will be no 
objection to my saying that you sent me when I ask her ? " 

" Conway, you will of course not mention my name to her. I have 
suggested to you a marriage which I think would tend to make you 
happy, and would give you a stability in life which you want. It is 
perhaps better that I should be explicit at once. As an unmarried 
man I cannot continue to know you. You have said words of late 
which have driven me to this conclusion. I have thought about it 
much, too much, perhaps, and I know that I am right. Miss Van 
Siever has beauty and wealth and intellect, and I think that she would 
appreciate the love of such a man as you are. Now go." And 
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, standing upright, pointed to the door. Conway 
Dalrymple slowly took his Spanish hat from off the marble slab on 
which he had laid it, and left the room without saying a word. The 
interview had been quite long enough, and there was nothing else which 
he knew how to say with effect. 

Croquet is a pretty game out of doors, and chess is delightful in a 
drawing-room. Battledoor and shuttlecock and hunt-the-slipper have 
also their attractions. Proverbs are good, and cross questions with 
crooked answers may be made very amusing. But none of these games 
are equal to the game of love-making, providing that the players can 
be quite sure that there shall be no heart in the matter. Any touch of 
heart not only destroys the pleasure of the game, but makes the player 
awkward and incapable and robs him of his skill. And thus it is that 
there are many people who cannot play the game at all. A deficiency 
of some needed internal physical strength prevents the owners of the 
heart from keeping a proper control over its valves, and thus emotion 


sets in, and the pulses are accelerated, and feeling supervenes. For 
such a one to attempt a game of love-making, is as though your friend 
with the gout should insist on playing croquet. A sense of the ridicu- 
lous, if nothing else, should in either case deter the afflicted one from 
the attempt. There was no such absurdity with our friend Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton and Conway Dalrymple. Their valves and pulses were all 
right. They could play the game without the slightest danger of any 
inconvenient result ; of any inconvenient result, that is, as regarded 
their own feelings. Blind people cannot see and stupid people cannot 
understand, and it might be that Mr. Dobbs Broughton, being both 
blind and stupid in such matters, might perceive something of the 
playing of the game and not know that it was only a game of skill. 

When I say that as regarded these two lovers there was nothing of 
love between them, and that the game was therefore so far innocent, 
I would not be understood as asserting that these people had no 
hearts within their bosoms. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton probably loved her 
husband in a sensible, humdrum way, feeling him to be a bore, 
knowing him to be vulgar, aware that he often took a good deal more 
wine than was good for him, and that he was almost as unedu- 
cated as a hog. Yet she loved him, and showed her love by taking 
care that he should have things for dinner which he liked to eat. 
But in this alone there were to be found none of the charms of a 
fevered existence, and therefore Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, requiring those 
charms for her comfort, played her little game with Conway Dalrymple. 
And as regarded the artist himself, let no reader presume him to have 
been heartless because he flirted with Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. Doubt- 
less he will marry some day, will have a large family for which he will 
work hard, and will make a good husband to some stout lady who will 
be careful in looking after his linen. But on the present occasion he 
fell into some slight trouble in spite of the innocence of his game. As 
he quitted his friend's room he heard the hall-door slammed heavily ; 
then there was a quick step on the stairs, and on the landing-place 
above the first flight he met the master of the house, somewhat flurried, 
as it seemed, and not looking comfortable, either as regarded his person 
or his temper. "By George, he's been drinking! " Conway said to 
himself, after the first glance. Now it certainly was the case that 
poor Dobbs Broughton would sometimes drink at improper hours. 

" What the devil are you doing here ? " said Dobbs Broughton to 
his friend the artist. " You're always here. You're here a doosed 
si<*ht more than I like." Husbands when they have been drinking are 
very apt to make mistakes as to the purport of the game. 


" Why, Dobbs," said the painter, " there's something wrong 
with you." 

" No, there ain't. There's nothing wrong; and if there was, what's 
that to you ? I shan't ask you to pay anything for me, I suppose." 

"Well; I hope not." 

" I won't have you here, and let that be an end of it. It's 'all very 
well when I choose to have a few friends to dinner, but my wife can do 
very well without your fal-lalling here all day. Will you remember 
that, if you please ? " 

Con way Dalrymple, knowing that he had better not argue any 
question with a drunken man, took himself out of the house, shrugging 
his shoulders as he thought of the misery which his poor dear play- 
fellow would now be called upon to endure. 



ON the morning after his visit to Miss Demolines John Eames found 
himself at the Paddington station asking for a ticket for Guestwick, and 
as he picked up his change another gentleman also demanded a ticket 
for the same place. Had Guestwick been as Liverpool or Manchester, 
Eames would have thought nothing about it. It is a matter of course 
that men should always be going from London to Liverpool and Man- 
chester ; but it seemed odd to him that two men should want first-class 
tickets for so small a place as Guestwick at the same moment. And 
when, afterwards, he was placed by the guard in the same carriage with 
this other traveller, he could not but feel some little curiosity. The 
man was four or five years Johnny's senior, a good-looking fellow, with 
a pleasant face, and the outward appurtenances of a gentleman. The 
intelligent reader will no doubt be aware that the stranger was Major 
Grantly ; but the intelligent reader has in this respect had much advan- 
tage over John Eames, who up to this time had never even heard of 
his cousin Grace Crawley's lover. "I think you were asking for a 
ticket for Guestwick," said Johnny ; whereupon the major owned that 
such was the case. " I lived at Guestwick the greater part of my life," 
said Johnny, " and it's the dullest, dearest little town in all England." 
" I never was there before," said the major, " and indeed I can hardly 
say I am going there now. I shall only pass through it." Then he got 
out his newspaper, and Johnny also got out his, and for a time there 
x. x 


was no conversation between them. John remembered how holy was 
the errand upon which he was intent, and gathered his thoughts 
together, resolving that having so great a matter on his mind he would 
think about nothing else and speak about nothing at all. He was 
going down to Allington to ask Lily Dale for the last time whether she 
would be his wife ; to ascertain whether he was to be successful or . 
unsuccessful in the one great wish of his life ; and, as such was the 
case with him, as he had in hand a thing so vital, it could be nothing 
to him whether the chance companion of his voyage was an agreeable 
or a disagreeable person. He himself, in any of the ordinary circum- 
stances of life, was prone enough to talk with any one he might meet. 
He could have travelled for twelve hours together with an old lady, and 
could listen to her or make her listen to him without half an hour's 
interruption. But this journey was made on no ordinary occasion, 
and it behoved him to think of Lily. Therefore, after the first little 
almost necessary effort at civility, he fell back into gloomy silence. 
He was going to do his best to win Lily Dale, and this doing of his 
best would require all his thought and all his energy. 

And probably Major Grantly's mind was bent in the same direction. 
He, too, had this work before him, and could not look upon his work 
as a thing that was altogether pleasant. He might probably get that 
which he was intent upon obtaining. He knew, he almost knew, that 
he had won the heart of the girl whom he was seeking. There had 
been that between him and her which justified him in supposing that 
he was dear to her, although no expression of affection had ever passed 
from her lips to his ears. Men may know all that they require to 
know on that subject without any plainly spoken words. Grace Crawley 
had spoken no word, and yet he had known, at. any rate had not 
doubted, that he could have the place in her heart of which he desired 
to be the master. She would never surrender herself altogether till 
she had taught herself to be sure of him to whom she gave herself. 
But she had listened to him with silence that had not rebuked him, 
and he had told himself that he might venture, without fear of that 
rebuke as to which the minds of some men are sensitive to a degree 
which other men cannot even understand. But for all this Major 
Grantly could not be altogether happy as to his mission. He would 
ask Grace Crawley to be his wife ; but he would be ruined by his 
own success. And the remembrance that he would be severed from all 
his own family by the thing that he was doing, was very bitter to him. 
In generosity he might be silent about this to Grace, but who can 
endure to be silent on such a subject to the woman who is to be his 


wife ? And then it would not be possible for him to abstain from 
explanation. He was now following her down to Allington, a step 
which he certainly would not have taken but for the misfortune which 
had befallen her father, and he must explain to her in some sort why 
he did so. He must say to her, if not in so many words, still almost 
as plainly as words could speak, I am here now to ask you to be my 
wife, because you specially require the protection and countenance of 
the man who loves you, in the present circumstances of your father's 
affairs. He knew that he was doing right ; perhaps had some idea 
that he was doing nobly ; but this very appreciation of his own good 
qualities made the task before him the more difficult. 

Major Grantly had The Times, and John Eames had the Daily News, 
and they exchanged papers. One had the last Saturday, and the other 
the last Spectator, and they exchanged those also. Both had the Pall 
Mall Gazette, of which enterprising periodical they gradually came to 
discuss the merits and demerits, thus falling into conversation at last, 
in spite of the weight of the mission on which each of them was intent. 
Then, at last, when they were within half-an-hour of the end of their 
journey, Major Grantly asked his companion what was the best inn at 
Guestwick. He had at first been minded to go on to Allington at once, 
to go on to Allington and get his work done, and then return home 
or remain there, or find the nearest inn with a decent bed, as circum- 
stances might direct him. But on reconsideration, as he drew nearer 
to the scene of his future operations, he thought that it might be well 
for him to remain that night at Guestwick. He did not quite know how 
far Allington was from Guestwick, but he did know that it was still 
mid- winter, and that the days were very short. " The Magpie "was 
the best inn, Johnny said. Having lived at Guestwick all his life, and 
having a mother living there now, he had never himself put up at 
" The Magpie," but he believed it to be a good country inn. They kept 
post-horses there, he knew. He did not tell the stranger that his late 
old friend, Lord De Guest, and his present old friend, Lady Julia, 
always hired post-horses from " The Magpie," but he grounded his 
ready assertion on the remembrance of that fact. " I think I shall stay 
there to-night," said the major. "You'll find it pretty comfortable, I 
don't doubt," said Johnny. " Though, indeed, it always seems to me 
that a man alone at an inn has a very bad time of it. Beading is all 
very well, but one gets tired of it at last. And then I hate horse-hair 
chairs." " It isix't very delightful," said the major, "but beggars 
mustn't be choosers." Then there was a pause, after which the major 
gp.oke again. " You don't happen to know which way Allington lies ? " 


" Allington ! " said Johnny. 

" Yes, Allington. Is there not a village called Allington ? " 

" There is a village called Allington, certainly. It lies over there." 
And Johnny pointed with his finger through the window. " As you do 
not know the country you can see nothing, but I can see the Allington 
trees at this moment." 

" I suppose there is no inn at Allington ? " 

" There's a public-house, with a very nice clean bedroom. It is 
called the * Eed Lion.' Mrs. Forrard keeps it. I would quite as soon 
stay there as at ' The Magpie.' Only if they don't expect you, they 
wouldn't have much for dinner." 

" Then you know the village of Allington ? " 

" Yes, I know the village of Allington very well. I have friends 
living there. Indeed, I may say I know everybody in Allington." 

" Do you know Mrs. Dale ? " 

11 Mrs. Dale ? " said Johnny. " Yes, I know Mrs. Dale. I have 
known Mrs. Dale pretty nearly all my life." Who could this man be 
who was going down to see Mrs. Dale, Mrs. Dale, and consequently, 
Lily Dale ? He thought that he knew Mrs. Dale so well, that she 
could have no visitor of whom he would not be entitled to have some 
knowledge. But Major Grantly had nothing more to say at the moment 
about Mrs. Dale. He had never seen Mrs. Dale in his life, and was 
now going to her house, not to see her, but a friend of hers. He found 
that he could not very well explain this to a stranger, and therefore at 
the moment he said nothing further. But Johnny would not allow the 
subject to be dropped. " Have you known Mrs. Dale long ? " he asked. 

" I have not the pleasure of knowing her at all," said the major. 

" I thought, perhaps, by your asking after her 

" I intend to call upon her, that is all. I suppose tfcey will have 
an omnibus here from 'The Magpie?" Eames said that there no 
doubt would be an omnibus from " The Magpie," and then they were at 
their journey's end. 

For the present we will follow John Eames, who went at once to 
his mother's house. It was his intention to remain there for two or 
three days, and then go over to the house, or rather to the cottage, of 
his great ally Lady Julia, which lay just beyond Guestwick Manor, and 
somewhat nearer to Allington than to the town of Guestwick. He had 
made up his mind that he would not himself go over to Allington till 
he could do so from Guestwick Cottage, as it was called, feeling that, 
under certain untoward circumstances, should untoward circum- 
stances arise, Lady Julia's sympathy might be more endurable than 


that of his mother. But he would take care that it should be known 
at Allington that he was in the neighbourhood. He understood the 
necessary strategy of his campaign too well to suppose that he could 
startle Lily into acquiescence. 

With his own mother and sister, John Earnes was in these days 
quite a hero. He was a hero with them now, because in his early 
boyish days there had been so little about him that 'was heroic. Then 
there had been a doubt whether he would ever earn his daily bread, 
and he had been "a very heavy burden on the slight family resources in 
the matter of jackets and trousers. The pride taken in our Johnny had 
not been great, though the love felt for him had been warm. But 
gradually things had changed, and John Eames had become heroic in 
his mother's eyes. A chance circumstance had endeared him to Earl 
De Guest, and from that moment things had gone well with him. The 
earl had given hinf a watch and had left him a fortune, and Sir Raffle 
Buffle had made him a private secretary. In the old days, when 
Johnny's love for Lily Dale was first discussed by his mother and 
sister, they had thought it impossible that Lily should ever bring 
herself to regard with affection so humble a suitor ; for the Dales 
have ever held their heads up in the world. But now there is no 
misgiving on that score with Mrs. Eames and her daughter. Their 
wonder is that Lily Dale should be such a fool as to decline the love of 
such a man. So Johnny was received with the respect due to a hero, as 
well as with the affection belonging to a son ; by which 1 mean it to 
be inferred that Mrs. Eames had got a little bit of fish for dinner as 
well as a leg of mutton. 

" A man came down in the train with me who says he is going over 
to Allington," said Johnny. " I wonder who he can be. He is staying 
at ' The Magpie.' " 

" A friend of Captain Dale's, probably," said Mary. Captain Dale 
was the squire's nephew and his heir. 

" But this man was not going to the squire's. He was going to 
the Small House." 

" Is he going to stay there ? " 

"I suppose not, as he asked about the inn." Then Johnny reflected 
that the man might probably be a friend of Crosbie's, and became 
melancholy in consequence. Crosbie might have thought it expedient 
to send an ambassador down to prepare the ground for him before he 
should venture again upon the scene himself. If it were so, would it 
not be well that he, John Eames, should get over to Lily as soon 
as possible, and not wait till he should be staying with Lady Julia ? 


It was at any rate incumbent upon him to call upon Lady Julia 
the next morning, because of his commission. The Berlin wool might 
remain in his portmanteau till his portmanteau should go with him to 
the cottage ; but he would take the spectacles at once, and he must 
explain to Lady Julia what the lawyers had told him about the income. 
So he hired a saddle-horse from "The Magpie " and started after breakfast 
on the morning after his arrival. In his unheroic days he would have 
walked, as he had done, scores of times, over the whole distance from 
Guestwick to Allington. But now, in these grander days, he thought 
about his boots and the mud, and the formal appearance of the thing. 
" Ah dear," he said, to himself, as the nag walked slowly out of the 
town, " it used to be better with me in the old days. I hardly hoped 
that she would ever accept me, but at least she had never refused me. 
And then that brute had not as yet made his way down fo Allington ! " 

He did not go very fast. After leaving the town he trotted on for 
a mile or so. But when he got to the palings of Guestwick Manor 
he let the animal walk again, and his mind ran back over the incidents 
of his life which were connected with the place. He remembered a 
certain long ramble which he had taken in those woods after Lily had 
refused him. That had been subsequent to the Crosbie episode in his 
life, and Johnny had been led to hope by certain of his friends, 
especially by Lord De Guest and his sister, that he might then be 
successful. But he had been unsuccessful, and had passed the bitterest 
hour of his life wandering about in those woods. Since that he had 
been unsuccessful again and again ; but the bitterness of failure had 
not been so strong with him as on that first occasion. He would try 
again now, and if he failed, he would fail for the last time. As he was 
thinking of all this, a gig overtook him on the road, and on looking 
round he saw that the occupant of the gig was the man who had 
travelled with him on the previous day in the train. Major Grantly 
was alone in the gig, and as he recognized John Eanies he stopped his 
horse. " Are you also going to Allington ? " he asked. John Eames, 
with something of scorn in his voice, replied that he had no intention 
of going to Allington on that day. He still thought that this man 
might be an emissary from Crosbie, and therefore resolved that but 
scant courtesy was due to him. " I am on my way there now," said 
Grantly, " and am going to the house of your friend. May I tell her 
that I travelled with you yesterday ? " 

" Yes, sir," said Johnny. " You may tell her that you came down 
with John Eames." 

" And are you John Eames ? " asked the major. 


" If you have no objection," said Johnny. " But I can hardly 
suppose you have ever heard my name before ? " 

"It is familiar to me, because I have the pleasure of knowing a 
cousin of yours, Miss Grace Crawley." 

" My cousin is at present staying at Allington with Mrs. Dale," 
said Johnny. 

" Just so," said the major, who now began to reflect that he had 
been indiscreet in mentioning Grace Crawley's name. No doubt every 
one connected with the family, all the Crawleys, all the Dales, and all 
the Eames's, would soon know the business which had brought him 
down to Allington ; but he need not have taken the trouble of beginning 
the story against himself. John Eames, in truth, had never even heard 
Major Grantly's name, and was quite unaware of the fortune which 
awaited his cousin. Even after what he had now been told, he still 
suspected the stranger of being an emissary from his enemy ; but the 
major, not giving him credit for his ignorance, was annoyed with him- 
self for having told so much of his own history. " I will tell the ladies 
that I had the pleasure of meeting you," he said ; " that is, if I am 
lucky enough to see them." And then he drove on. 

" I know I should hate that fellow if I were to meet him anywhere 
again," said Johnny to himself as he rode on. "When I take an 
aversion to a fellow at first sight, I always stick to it. It's instinct, I 
suppose." And he was still giving himself credit for the strength of 
his instincts when he reached Lady Julia's cottage. He rode at once 
into the stable-yard, with the privilege of an accustomed friend of the 
house, and having given up his horse, entered the cottage by the back 
door. " Is my lady at home, Jemima ? " he said to the maid. 

" Yes, Mr. John ; she is in the drawing-room, and friends of yours 
are with her." Then he was announced, and found himself in the 
presence of Lady Julia, Lily Dale, and Grace Crawley. 

He was very warmly received. Lady Julia really loved him dearly, 
and would have done anything in her power to bring about a match 
between him and Lily. Grace was his cousin, and though she had not 
seen him often, she was prepared to love him dearly as Lily's lover. 
And Lily, Lily loved him dearly too, if only she could have brought 
herself to love him as he wished to be loved ! To all of them Johnny 
Eames was something of a hero. At any rate in the eyes of all of 
them he possessed those virtues which seemed to them to justify them 
in petting him and making much of him. 

"I am so glad you've come, that is, if you've brought my 
spectacles," said Lady Julia. 


" My pockets are crammed with spectacles," said Johnny. 

" And when are you coming to me ? " 

" I was thinking of Tuesday." 

"No; don't come till Wednesday. But I mean Monday. No; 
Monday won't do. Come on Tuesday, early, and drive me out. And 
now tell us the news." 

Johnny swore that there was no news. He made a brave attempt 
to be gay and easy before Lily ; but he failed, and he knew that he 
failed, and he knew that she knew that he failed. " Mamma will be so 
glad to see you," said Lily. " I suppose you haven't seen Bell yet ? " 

" I only got to Guestwick yesterday afternoon," said he. 

"And it will be so nice our having Grace at the Small House ; 
won't it ? Uncle Christopher has quite taken a passion for Grace, so 
that I am hardly anybody now in the Allington world." 

"By-the-by," said Johnny, "I came down here with a friend of 
yours, Grace." 

" A friend of mine ? " said Grace. 

" So he says, and he is at Allington at this moment. He passed 
me in a gig going there." 

" And what was his name ? " Lily asked. 

"I have not the remotest idea," said Johnny. "He is a man 
about my own age, very good-looking, and apparently very well able to 
take care of himself. He is short-sighted, and holds a glass in one 
eye when he looks out of a carriage- window. That's all that I know 
about him." 

Grace Crawley's face had become suffused with blushes at the first 
mention of the friend and the gig ; but then Grace blushed very easily. 
Lily knew all about it at once ; at once divined who must be the 
friend in the gig, and was almost beside herself with joy. Lady Julia, 
who had heard no more of the major than had Johnny, was still clever 
enough to perceive that the friend must be a particular friend, for she 
had noticed Miss Crawley's blushes. And Grace herself had no doubt 
as to the man. The picture of her lover, with the glass in his eye as 
he looked out of the window, had been too perfect to admit of a doubt. 
In her distress she put out her hand and took hold of Lily's dress. 

" And you say he is at Allington now ? " said Lily. 
"I have no doubt he is at the Small House at this moment," said 



FOR GRANTLY drove his 
gig into the yard of the " Red 
Lion" at Allington, and from 
thence walked away at once to 
Mrs. Dale's house. When he 
reached the village he had 
hardly made up his mind as 
to the way in which he would 
begin his attack ; but now, as 
he went down the street, he 
resolved that he would first 
ask for Mrs. Dale. Most pro- 
bably he would find himself in 
the presence of Mrs. Dale and 
her daughter, and of Grace also, 
at his first entrance ; and if so, 
his position would be awkward 
enough. He almost regretted 
now that he had not written to Mrs. Dale, and asked for an interview. 
His task would be very difficult if he should find all the ladies together. 
But he was strong in the feeling that when his purpose was told it 
would meet the approval at any rate of Mrs. Dale ; and he walked 
boldly on, and bravely knocked at the door of the Small House, as he 
had already learned that Mrs. Dale's residence was called by all the 
neighbourhood. Nobody was at home, the servant said; and then, 
when the visitor began to make further inquiry, the girl explained that 
the two young ladies had walked as far as Guestwick Cottage, and that 
Mrs. Dale was at this moment at the Great House with the squire. 
She had gone across soon after the young ladies had started. The 
maid, however, was interrupted before she had finished telling all this to 
the major, by finding her mistress behind her in the passage. Mrs. 
Dale had returned, and had entered the house from the lawn. 

" I am here now, Jane," said Mrs. Dale, " if the gentleman wishes 
to see me." 

Then the major announced himself. " My name is Major Grantly/' 
xi. V 


said lie ; and he was blundering on with some words about his own 
intrusion, when Mrs. Dale begged him to follow her into the drawing- 
room. He had muttered something to the effect that Mrs. Dale would 
not know who he was ; but Mrs. Dale knew all about him, and had heard 
the whole of Grace's story from Lily. She and Lily had often discussed 
the question whether, under existing circumstances, Major Grantly 
should feel himself bound to offer his hand to Grace, and the mother 
and daughter had differed somewhat on the matter. Mrs. Dale had 
held that he was not so bound, urging that the unfortunate position in 
which Mr. Crawley was placed was so calamitous to all connected with 
him, as to justify any man, not absolutely engaged, in abandoning the 
thoughts of such a marriage. Mrs. Dale had spoken of Major Grantly's 
father and mother and brother and sister, and had declared her opinion 
that they were entitled to consideration. But Lily had opposed this 
idea yery stoutly, asserting that in an affair of love a man should think 
neither of father or brother or mother or sister. ''If he is worth 
anything," Lily had said, " he will come to her now, now in her 
trouble ; and will tell her that she at least has got a friend who will be 
true to her. If he does that, then I shall think that there is some- 
thing of the poetry and nobleness of love left." In answer to this 
Mrs. Dale had replied that women had no right to expect from men 
such self-denying nobility as that. "I don't expect it, mamma," said 
Lily. " And I am sure that Grace does not. Indeed I am quite sure 
that Grace does not expect even to see him ever again. She never says 
so, but I know that she has made up her mind about it. Still I think he 
ought to come." "It can hardly be that a man is bound to do a 
thing, the doing of which, as you confess, would be almost more than 
noble," said Mrs. Dale. And so the matter had been discussed between 
them. But now, as it seemed to Mrs. Dale, the man had come to do this 
noble thing. At any rate he was there in her drawing-room, and before 
either of them had sat down he had contrived to mention Grace. " You 
may not probably have heard my name," he said, " but I am acquainted 
with your friend, Miss Crawley." 

" I know your name very well, Major Grantly. My brother-in-law 
who lives over yonder, Mr. Dale, knows your father very well, or he 
did some years ago. And I have heard him say that he remembers you." 

" I recollect. He used to be staying at Ullathorne. But that is 
a long time ago. Is he at home now ? " 

" Mr. Dale is almost always at home. He very rarely goes away, 
and I am sure would be glad to see you." 

Then there was a little pause in the conversation. They had 
managed to seat themselves, and Mrs. Dale had said enough to put her 


visitor fairly at his ease. If he had anything special to say to her, 
he must say it, any request or proposition to make as to Grace 
Crawley, he must make it. And he did make it at once. " My object 
in coming to Allington," he said, " was to see Miss Crawley." 

" She and my daughter have taken a long walk to call on a friend, 
and I am afraid they will stay for lunch ; but they will certainly be 
home between three and four, if that is not too long for you to remain 
at Allington." 

" dear, no," said he. " It will not hurt me to wait." 

" It certainly will not hurt me, Major Grantly. Perhaps you will 
lunch with me ? " 

" I'll tell you what, Mrs. Dale ; if you'll permit me, I'll explain to 
you why I have come here. Indeed, I have intended to do so all 
through, and I can only ask you to keep my secret, if after all it should 
require to be kept." 

"I will certainly keep any secret that you may ask me to keep," 
said Mrs. Dale, taking off her bonnet. 

" I hope there may be no need of one," said Major Grantly. " The 
truth is, Mrs. Dale, that I have known Miss Crawley for some time, 
nearly for two years now, and I may as well speak it out at once, I 
have made up my mind to ask her to be my wife. That is why I am 
here." Considering the nature of the statement, which must have been 
embarrassing, I think that it was made with fluency and simplicity. 

" Of course, Major Grantly, you know that I have no authority 
with our young friend," said Mrs. Dale. "I mean that she is not 
connected with us by family ties. She has a father and mother, living, 
as I believe, , in the same county with yourself." 

" I know that, Mrs. Dale." 

"And you may, perhaps, understand that, as Miss Crawley is now 
staying with me, I owe it in a measure to her friends to ask you 
whether they are aware of your intention." 

" They are not aware of it." 

" I know that at the present moment they are in great trouble." 

Mrs. Dale was going on, but she was interrupted by Major Grantly. 
" That is just it," he said. " There are circumstances at present 
which make it almost impossible that I should go to Mr. Crawley and 
ask his permission to address his daughter. I do not know whether 
you have heard the whole story ? " 

" As much, I believe, as Grace could tell me." 

" He is, I believe, in such a state of mental distress as to be 
hardly capable of giving me a considerate answer. And I should not 
know how to speak to him, or how not to speak to him, about this 

Y 2 


unfortunate affair. But, Mrs. Dale, you will, I think, perceive that 
the same circumstances make it imperative upon me to be explicit to 
Miss Crawley. I think I am the last man to boast of a woman's regard, 
but I had learned to think that I was not indifferent to Grace. If that 
be so, what must she think of me if I stay away from her now ? " 

" She understands too well the weight of the misfortune which has 
fallen upon her father, to suppose that any one not connected with her 
can be bound to share it." 

" That is just it. She will think that I am silent for that reason. 
I have determined that that shall not keep me silent, and, therefore, I 
have come here. I may, perhaps, be able to bring comfort to her in 
her trouble. As regards my worldly position, though, indeed, it will 
not be very good, as hers is not good either, you will not think your- 
self bound to forbid me to see her on that head." 

" Certainly not. I need hardly say that I fully understand that, as 
regards money, you are offering everything where you can get nothing." 

" And you understand my feeling ? " 

" Indeed, I do, and appreciate the great nobility of your love for 
Grace. Ypu shall see her here, if you wish it, and to-day, if you choose 
to wait." Major Grantly said that he would wait and would see Grace on 
that afternoon. Mrs. Dale again suggested that he should lunch with her, 
but this he declined. She then proposed that he should go across and 
call upon the squire, and thus consume his time. But to this he also 
objected. He was not exactly in the humour, he said, to renew so old 
and so slight an acquaintance at that time. Mr. Dale would probably 
have forgotten him, and would be sure to ask what had brought him to 
Allington. He would go and take a walk, he said, and come again 
exactly at half-past three. Mrs. Dale again expressed her certainty 
that the young ladies would be back by that time, and Major Grantly 
left the house. 

Mrs. Dale when she was left alone could not but compare the good 
fortune which was awaiting Grace, with the evil fortune which had 
fallen on her own child. Here was a man who was at all points a 
gentleman. Such, at least, was the character which Mrs. Dale at once 
conceded to him. And Grace had chanced to come across this man, 
and to please his eye, and satisfy his taste, and be loved by him. And 
the result of that chance would be that Grace would have everything 
given to her that the world has to give worth acceptance. She would 
have a companion for her life whom she could trust, admire, love, and 
of whom she could be infinitely proud. Mrs. Dale was not at all aware 
whether Major Grantly might have five hundred a year to spend, or 
five thousand, or what sum intermediate between the two, nor did 


she give much of her thoughts at the moment to that side of the 
subject. She knew without thinking of it, or fancied that she knew, 
that there were means sufficient for comfortable living. It was solely 
the nature and character of the man that was in her mind, and the 
sufficiency that was to be found in them for a wife's happiness. But 
her daughter, her Lily, had come across a man who was a scoundrel, 
and, as the consequence of that meeting, all her life was marred ! 
Could any credit be given to Grace for her success, or any blame 
attached to Lily for her failure. Surely not the latter ! How was her 
girl to have guarded herself from a love so unfortunate, or have 
avoided the rock on which her vessel had been shipwrecked ? Then 
many bitter thoughts passed through Mrs. Dale's mind, and she almost 
envied Grace Crawley her lover. Lily was contented to remain as she 
was, but Lily's mother could not bring herself to be satisfied that her 
child should fill a lower place in the world than other girls. It had 
ever been her idea, an idea probably never absolutely uttered even to 
herself, but not the less practically conceived, that it is the business 
of a woman to be married. That her Lily should have been won and 
not worn, had been, and would be, a trouble to her for ever. 

Major Grantly went back to the inn and saw his horse fed, and 
smoked a cigar, and then, finding that it was still only just one o'clock, 
he started for a walk. He was careful not to go out of Allington by 
the road he had entered it, as he had no wish to encounter Grace and 
her friend on their return into the village ; so he crossed a little brook 
which runs at the bottom of the hill on which the chief street of Allington 
is built, and turned into a field-path to the left as soon as he had got 
beyond the houses. Not knowing the geography of the place he did 
not understand that by taking that path he was making his way back 
to the squire's house ; but it was so ; and after sauntering on for about 
a mile and crossing back again over the stream, of which he took no 
notice, he found himself leaning across a gate, and looking into a 
paddock on the other side of which was the high wall of a gentleman's 
garden. To avoid this he went on a little further and found himself on 
a farm road, and before he could retrace his steps so as not to be seen, 
he met a gentleman whom he presumed to be the owner of the house. 
It was the squire surveying his home farm, as was his daily custom ; 
but Major Grantly had not perceived that the house must of necessity 
be Allington House, having been aware that he had passed the entrance 
to the place, as he entered the village on the other side. " I'm 
afraid I'm intruding," he said, lifting his hat. " I came up the path 
yonder, not knowing that it would lead me so close to a gentleman's 


" There is a right of way through the fields on to the Guestwick 
road," said the squire, " and therefore you are not trespassing in any 
sense ; but we are not particular about such things down here, and 
you would be very welcome if there were no right of way. If you are 
a stranger, perhaps you would like to see the outside of the old house. 
People think it picturesque." 

Then Major Grantly became aware that this must be the squire, 
and he was annoyed with himself for his own awkwardness in having 
thus come upon the house. He would have wished to keep himself 
altogether unseen if it had been possible, and especially unseen by 
this old gentleman, to whom, now that he had met him, he was almost 
bound to introduce himself. But he was not absolutely bound to do 
so, and he determined that he would still keep his peace. Even if the 
squire should afterwards hear of his having been there, what would it 
matter ? But to proclaim himself at the present moment would be 
disagreeable to him. He permitted the squire, however, to lead him 
to the front of the house, and in a few moments was standing on the 
terrace hearing an account of the architecture of the mansion. 

"You can see the date still in the brickwork of one of the 
chimneys, that is, if your eyes are very good you can see it, 1617. 
It was completed in that year, and very little 1ms been done to it since. 
We think the chimneys are pretty." 

"They are very pretty," said the major. "Indeed, the house 
altogether is as graceful as it can be." 

" Those trees are old, too," said the squire, pointing to two cedars 
which stood at the side of the house. "They say they are older 
than the house, but I don't feel sure of it. There was a mansion here 
before, very nearly, though not quite, on the same spot." 

" Your own ancestors were living here before that, I suppose ? " 
said Grantly, meaning to be civil. 

" Well, yes ; two or three hundred years before it, I suppose. If 
you don't mind coming down to the churchyard, you'll get an excellent 
view of the house ; by far the best that there is. By- the -by, would 
you like to step in and take a glass of wine ? " 

"I'm very much obliged," said the major, " but indeed I'd rather 
not." Then he followed the squire down to the churchyard, and was 
shown the church as well as the view of the house, and the vicarage, 
and a view over to Allington woods from the vicarage gate, of which 
the squire was very fond, and in this way he was taken back on to the 
Guestwick side of the village, and even down on to the road by which 
he had entered it, without in the least knowing where he was. He looked 
at his watch and saw that it was past two. " I'm very much obliged to 



you, sir," lie said, again taking off his hat to the squire, " and if I shall 
not be intruding I'll make my way back to the village." 

" What village ? " said the squire. 

" To Allington," said Grantly. 

" This is Allington," said the squire ; and as he spoke, Lily Dale 
and Grace Crawley turned a corner from the Guestwick road and came 
close upon them. " Well, girls, I did not expect to see you," said the 
squire ; " your mamma told me you wouldn't be back till it was nearly 
dark, Lily." 

" We have come back earlier than we intended," said Lily. She 
of course had seen the otranger with her uncle, and knowing the ways 
of the squire in such matters had expected to be introduced to him. 
But the reader will be aware that no introduction was possible. It 
never occurred to Lily that this man could be the Major Grantly of 
whom she and Grace had been talking during the whole length of the 
walk home. But Grace and her lover had of course known each other 
at once, and Grantly, though he was abashed and almost dismayed by 
the meeting, of course came forward and gave his hand to his friend. 
Grace in taking it did not utter a word. 

" Perhaps I ought to have introduced myself to you as Major 
Grantly ? " said he, turning to the squire. 

"Major Grantly! Dear me! I had no idea that you were 
expected in these parts." 

"I have come without being expected." 

" You are very welcome, I'm sure. I hope your father is well ? I 
used to know him some years ago, and I daresay he has not forgotten 
me." Then, while the girls stood by in silence, and while Grantly 
was endeavouring to escape, the squire invited him very warmly to 
send his portmanteau up to the house. " We'll have the ladies up 
from the house below, and make it as little dull for you as possible." 
But this would not have suited Grantly, at any rate would not suit 
him till he should know what answer he was to have. He excused 
himself therefore, pleading a positive necessity to be at Guestwick that 
evening, and then, explaining that he had already seen Mrs. Dale, he 
expressed his intention of going back to the Small House in company 
with the ladies, if they would allow him. The squire, who did not as 
yet quite understand it all, bade him a formal adieu, and Lily led the 
way home down behind the churchyard wall*and through the bottom of 
the gardens belonging to the Great House. She of course knew now 
who the stranger was, and did all in her power to relieve Grace of 
her embarrassment. Grace had hitherto not spoken a single word 
since she had seen her lover, nor did she say a word to him in their 


walk to the house. And, in truth, he was not much more communica- 
tive than Grace. Lily did all the talking, and with wonderful female 
skill contrived to have some words ready for use till they all found 
themselves together in Mrs. Dale's drawing-room. "I have caught 
a major, mamma, and landed him,'.' said Lily laughing, " but I'm 
afraid, from what I hear, that you had caught him first." 


LADY JULIA DE GUEST always lunched at one exactly, and it was not 
much past twelve when John Eames made his appearance at the 
cottage. He was of course told to stay, and of course said that he 
would stay. It had been his purpose to lunch with Lady Julia ; but 
then he had not expected to find Lily Dale at the cottage. Lily her- 
self would have been quite at her ease, protected by Lady Julia, and 
somewhat protected also by her own powers of fence, had it not been 
that Grace was there also. But Grace Crawley, from the moment that 
she had heard the description of the gentleman who looked out of the 
window with his glass in his eye, had by no means been at her ease. 
Lily saw at once that she could not be brought to join in any conversa- 
tion, and both John and Lady Julia, in their ignorance of the matter in 
hand, made matters worse. 

" So that was Major Grantly ? " said John. " I have heard of him 
before, I think. He is a son of the old archdeacon, is he not ? ' 

"I don't know about old archdeacon," said Lady Julia. "The 
archdeacon is the son of the old bishop, whom I .remember very well. 
And it is not so very long since the bishop died, either." 

" I wonder what he's doing at Allington ? " said Johnny. 

" I think he knows rny uncle," said Lily. 

" But he's going to call on your mother," he said. Then Johnny 
remembered that the major had said something as to knowing Miss 
Crawley, and for the moment he was silent. 

" I remember when they talked of making the son a bishop also," 
said Lady Julia. 

" What ; this same man who is now a major ? " said Johnny. 

"No, you goose. He is not the son; he is the grandson. They 
were going to make the archdeacon a bishop, and I remember hearing 
that he was terribly disappointed. He is getting to be an old man now, 
I suppose ; and yet, dear me, how well I remember his father." 


" He didn't look like a bishop's son," said Johnny. 

" How does a bishop's son look ? " Lily asked. 

" I suppose he ought to have some sort of clerical tinge about him ; 
but this fellow had nothing of that kind." 

" But then this fellow, as you call him," said Lily, " is only the son 
of an archdeacon." 

" That accounts for it, I suppose," said Johnny. 

But during all this time Grace did not say a word, and Lily 
perceived it. Then she bethought herself as to what she had better 
do. Grace, she knew, could not be comfortable where she was. Nor, 
indeed, was it probable that Grace would be very comfortable in 
returning home. There could not be much ease for Grace till the 
coming meeting between her and Major (rrantly should be over. But 
it would be better that Grace should go back to Allington at once ; and 
better also, perhaps, for Major Grantly that it should be so. " Lady 
Julia," she said, " I don't think we'll mind stopping for lunch to-day." 

" Nonsense, my dear ; you promised." 

" I think we must break our promise ; I do indeed. You mustn't 
be angry with us." And Lily looked at Lady Julia, as though there 
were something which Lady Julia ought to understand, which she, 
Lily, could not quite explain. I fear that Lily was false, and intended 
her old friend to believe that she was running away because John 
Eames had come there. 

" But you will be famished," said Lady Julia. 

" We shall live through it," said Lily. 

" It is out of the question that I should let you walk all the way 
here from Allington and all the way back without taking something." 

" We shall just be home in time for lunch if we go now," said Lily. 
" Will not that be best, Grace ? " 

Grace hardly knew what would be best. She only knew that 
Major Grantly was at Allington, and that he had come thither to see 
her. The idea of hurrying back after him was unpleasant to her, and 
yet she was so flurried that she felt thankful to Lily for taking her 
away from the cottage. The matter was compromised at last. They 
remained for half an hour, and ate some biscuits and pretended to 
drink a glass of wine, and then they started. John Eames, who in 
truth believed that Lily Dale was running away from him, was by no 
means well pleased, and when the girls were gone, did not make him- 
self so agreeable to his old friend as he should have done. " What a 
fool I am to come here at all," he said, throwing himself into an arm- 
chair as soon as the front door was closed. 

" That's very civil to me, John ! " 


" You know what I mean, Lady Julia. I am a fool to come near 
her, until I can do so without thinking more of her than I do of any 
other girl in the county." 

" I don't think you have anything to complain of as yet," said 
Lady Julia, who had in some sort perceived that Lily's retreat had 
been on Grace's account, and not on her own. " It seems to me that 
Lily was very glad to . see you, and when I told her that you were 
coming to stay here, and would be near them for some days, she 
seemed to be quite pleased ; she did indeed." 

" Then why did she run away the moment I came in ? " said 

"I think it was something you said about that man who has gone 
to Allington." 

"What difference can the man make to her? The truth is, I 
despise myself ; I do indeed, Lady Julia. Only think of my meeting 
Crosbie at dinner the other day, and his having the impertinence to 
come up and shake hands with me." 

" I suppose he didn't say anything about what happened at 
the Paddington Station ? " 

" No ; he didn't speak about that. I wish I knew whether she 
cares for him still. If I thought she did, I would never speak another 
word to her, I mean about myself. Of course I am not going to 
quarrel with them. I am not such a fool as that." Then Lady Julia 
tried to comfort him, and succeeded so far that he was induced to eat 
the mince veal that had been intended for the comfort and support of 
the two young ladies who had run away. 

" Do you think it is he ? " were the first words which Grace said 
when they were fairly on their way back together. 

" I should think it must be. What other man can there be, of 
that sort, who would be likely to come to Allington to see you ?" 

" His coming is not likely. I cannot understand that he should 
come. He let me leave Silverbridge without seeing me, and I thought 
that he was quite right." 

" And I think he is quite right to come here. I am very glad he 
has come. It shows that he has really something like a heart inside 
him. Had he not come, or sent, or written, or taken some step before 
the trial comes on, to make you know that he was thinking of you, I 
should have said that he was as hard, as hard as any other man that 
I ever heard of. Men are so hard ! But I don't think he is, now. 
I am beginning to regard him as the one chevalier sans peur et sans 
reproche, and to fancy that you ought to go down on your knees before 
him, and kiss his highness's shoebuckle. In judging of men one's 


mind vacillates so quickly between the scorn which is due to a false 
man and the worship which is due to a true man." Then she was 
silent for a moment, but Grace said nothing, and Lily continued, " I 
tell you fairly, Grace, that I shall expect very much from you now." 

" Much in what way, Lily ?" 

" In the way of worship. I shall not be content that you should 
merely love him. If he has come here, as he must have done, to say 
that the moment of the world's reproach is the moment he has chosen 
to ask you to be his wife, I think that you will owe him more than love." 

" I shall owe him more than love, and I will pay him more than 
love," said Grace. There was something in the tone of her voice as 
she spoke which made Lily stop her and look up into her face. There 
was a smile there which Lily had never seen before, and which gave a 
beauty to her which was wonderful to Lily's eyes. Surely this lover of 
Grace's must have seen her smile like that, and therefore had loved 
her and was giving such wonderful proof of his love. " Yes," con- 
tinued Grace, standing and looking at her friend, " you may stare at 
me, Lily, but you may be sure that I will do for Major Grantly all the 
good that I can do for him." 

" What do you mean, Grace ? " 

" Never mind what I mean. You are very imperious in managing 
your own affairs, and you must let me be so equally in mine." 

" But I tell you everything." 

" Do you suppose that if if if in real truth it can possibly be the 
case that Major Grantly shall have come here to offer me his hand 
when we are all ground down into the dust, as we are, do you think 
that I will let him sacrifice himself? Would you ? " 

" Certainly. Why not ? There will be no sacrifice. He will b'e 
asking for that which he wishes to get ; and you will be bound to give 
it to him." 

"If he wants it, where is his nobility ? If it be as you say, he 
will have shown himself noble, and his nobility will have consisted in 
this, that he has been willing to take that which he does not want, in 
order that he may succour one whom he loves. I also will succour 
one whom I love, as best I know how." Then she walked on quickly 
before her Mend, and Lily stood for a moment thinking before she 
followed her. They were now on a field-path, by which they were 
enabled to escape the road back to Allington for the greater part of the 
distance, and Grace had reached a stile, and had clambered over it 
before Lily had caught her. 

" You must not go away by yourself," said Lily. 

" I don't wish to go away by myself." 


" I want you to stop a moment and listen to me. I am sure you 
are wrong in this, wrong for both your sakes. You believe that he 
loves you ? " 

" I thought he did once ; and if he has come here to see me, I 
suppose he does still." 

" If that be the case, and if you also love him " 

" I do. I make no mystery about that to you. I do love him with 
all my heart. I love him to-day, now that I believe him to be here, 
and that I suppose I shall see him, perhaps this very afternoon. And 
I loved him yesterday, when I thought that I should never see him 
again. I do love him. I do. I love him so well that I will never do 
him an injury." 

" That being so, if he makes you an offer you are bound to accept 
it. I do not think that you have an alternative." 

" I have an alternative, and I shall use it. Why don't you take 
my cousin John ? " 

" Because I like somebody else better. If you have got as good 
a reason I won't say another word to you." 

" And why don't you take that other person ? "" 

" Because I cannot trust his love ; that is why. It is not very kind 
of you, opening my sores afresh, when I am trying to heal yours." 

" Oh, Lily, am I unkind, unkind to you, who have been so 
generous to me ?" 

" I'll forgive you all that and a deal more if you will only listen to 
me and try to take my advice. Because this major of yours does a 
generous thing, which is for the good of you both, the infinite good 
of both of you, you are to emulate his generosity by doing a thing 
which will be for the good of neither of you. That is about it. Yes, 
it is, Grace. You cannot doubt that he has been meaning this for 
some time past ; and of course, if he looks upon you as his own, and 
I daresay, if the whole truth is to be told, he does " 

" But I am not his own." 

" Yes, you are, in one sense ; you have just said so with a great 
deal of energy. And if it is so, let me see, where was I ? " 

" Oh, Lily, you need not mind where you were." 

" But I do mind, and I hate to be interrupted in my arguments. 
Yes, just that. If he saw his cow sick, he'd try to doctor the cow in 
her sickness. He sees that you are sick, and of course he comes to 
your relief." 

" I am not Major Grantly's cow." 

" Yes, you are." 

" Nor his dog, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is his, 


except except, Lily, the dearest friend that he has on the face of the 
earth. He cannot have a friend that will go further for him than I will. 
He will never know how far I will go to serve him. You don't know 
his people. Nor do I know them. But I know what they are. His 
sister is married to a marquis." 

" What has that to do with it ? " said Lily, sharply. " If she were 
married to an archduke, what difference would that make ? " 

"And they are proud people all of them and rich; and they 
live with high persons in the world." 

" I didn't care though they lived with the royal family, and had the 
Prince of Wales for their bosom friend. It only shows how much 
better he is than they are." 

" But think what my family is,: how we are situated. When my 
father was simply poor I did not care about it, because he has been 
born and bred a gentleman. But now he is disgraced. Yes, Lily, he is. 
I am bound to say so, at any rate to myself, when I am thinking of 
Major Grantly ; and I will not cany that disgrace into a family which 
would feel it so keenly as they would do." Lily, however, went on 
with her arguments, and was still arguing when they turned the corner 
of the lane, and came upon Lily's uncle and the major himself. 


IN going down from the church to the Small House Lily Dale had all 
the conversation to herself. During some portion of the way the path 
was only broad enough for two persons, and here Major Grantly walked 
by Lily's side, while Grace followed them. Then they found their way 
into the house, and Lily made her little speech to her mother about 
catching the major. " Yes, my dear, I have seen Major Grantly before," 
said Mrs. Dale. " I suppose he has met you on the road. But I did 
not expect that any of you would have returned so soon." Some little 
explanation followed as to the squire, and as to Major Grantly's walk, 
and after that the great thing was to leave the two lovers alone. " You 
will dine here, of course, Major Grantly," Mrs. Dale said. But this he 
declined. He had learned, he said, that there was a night-train up to 
London, and he thougjat that he would return to town by that. He had 
intended, when he left London, to get back as soon as possible. Then 
Mrs. Dale, having hesitated for two or three seconds, got up and left 


the room, and Lily followed. "It seems very odd and abrupt," said 
Ilrs. Dale to her daughter, " but I suppose it is best." " Of course 
it is best, mamma. Do as one would be done by, that's the only 
rule. It will be much better for her that she should have it over." 

Grace was seated on a sofa, and Major Grantly got up from his 
chair, and came and stood opposite to her. " Grace," he said, " I hope 
you are not angry with me for coming down to see you here." 

" No, I am not angry," she said. 

" I have thought a great deal about it, and your friend, Miss Pretty- 
man, knew that I was coming. She quite approves of my coming." 

" She has written to me, but did not tell me of it," said Grace, not 
knowing what other answer to make. 

No, she could not have done that. She had no authority. I 
only mention her name because it will have weight with you, and 
because I have not done that which, under other circumstances, perhaps, 
I should have been bound to do. I have not seen your father." 

" Poor papa," said Grace. 

" I have felt that at the present moment I could not do so with any 
success. It has not come of any want of respect either for him or for 
you. Of course, Grace, you know why I am here ? " He paused, and 
then remembering that he had no right to expect an answer to such a 
question, he continued, " I have come here, dearest Grace, to ask you 
to be my wife, and to be a mother to Edith. I know that you love 

"I do indeed." 

" And I have hoped sometimes, though I suppose I ought not to 
say so, but I have hoped and almost thought sometimes, that you 
have been willing to to love me, too. It is better to tell the truth 
simply, is it not ? " 

" I suppose so," said Grace. 

" And therefore, and because I love you dearly myself, I have come 
to ask you to be my wife." Saying which he opened out his hand, and 
held it to her. But she did not take it. " There is my hand, Grace. 
If your heart is as I would have it you can give me yours, and I shall 
want nothing else to make me happy." But still she made no motion 
towards granting him his request. " If I have been too sudden," he 
said, " you must forgive me for that. I have been sudden and abrupt, 
but as things are, no other way has been open to me. Can you not 
bring yourself to give me some answer, Grace?" His hand had now 
fallen again to his side, but he was still standing- before her. 

She had said no word to him as yet, except that one in which she 
had acknowledged her love for his child, and had expressed no surprise, 


even in her countenance, at his proposal. And yet the idea that he 
should do such a thing, since the idea that he certainly would do it 
had become clear to her, had filled her with a world of surprise. No 
girl ever lived with any beauty belonging to her who had a smaller 
knowledge of her own possession than Grace Crawley. Nor had she 
the slightest pride in her own acquirements. That she had been 
taught in many things more than had been taught to other girls, had 
come of her poverty and of the desolation of her home. She had 
learned to read Greek and Italian because there had been nothing else 
for her to do in that sad house. And, subsequently, accuracy of 
knowledge had been necessary for the earning of her bread. I think 
that Grace had at times been weak enough to envy the idleness and 
almost to envy the ignorance of other girls. Her figure was light, 
perfect in symmetry, full of grace at all points ; but she had thought 
nothing of her figure, remembering only the poverty of her dress, 
but remembering also with a brave resolution that she would never be 
ashamed of it. And as her acquaintance with Major Grantly had 
begun and had grown, and as she had learned to feel unconsciously 
that his company was pleasanter to her than that of any other person 
she knew, she had still told herself that anything like love must be out 
of the question. But then words had been spoken, and there had 
been glances in his eye, and a tone in his voice, and a touch upon his 
fingers, of which she could not altogether refuse to accept the meaning. 
And others had spoken to her of it, the two Miss Prettymans and her 
friend Lily. Yet she would not admit to herself that it could be so, 
and she would not allow herself to confess to herself that she loved 
him. Then had come the last killing misery to which her father had 
been subjected. He had been accused of stealing money, and had 
been committed to be tried for the theft. From that moment, at any 
rate, any hope, if there had been a hope, must be crushed. But she 
swore to herself bravely that there had been no such hope. And she 
assured herself also that nothing had passed which had entitled her 
to expect anything beyond ordinary friendship from the man of whom 
she certainly had thought much. Even if those touches and those 
tones and those glances had meant anything, all such meaning must 
be annihilated by this disgrace which had come upon her. She might 
know that her father was innocent ; she might be sure, at any rate, 
that he had been innocent in intention ; but the world thought differently, 
and she, her brothers and sister, and her mother and her poor father, 
must bend to the world's opinion. If those dangerous joys had meant 
anything, they must be taken as meaning nothing more. 

Thus she had argued with herself, and, fortified by such self- 


teachings, she had come down to Alliiigton. Since she had heen with 
her friends there had come upon her from day to day a clear conviction 
that her arguments had been undoubtedly true, a clear conviction 
which had been very cold to her heart in spite of all her courage. 
She had expected nothing, hoped for nothing, and yet when nothing 
came she was sad. She thought of one special half-hour in which he 
had said almost all that he might have said, more than he ought to 
have said ; of a moment during which her hand had remained in his ; 
of a certain pressure with which he had put her shawl upon her 
shoulders. If he had only written to her one word to tell her that he 
believed her father was innocent ! But no ; she had no right to 
expect anything from him. And then Lily had ceased to talk of him, 
and she did expect nothing. Now he was there before her, asking 
her to come to him and be his wife. Yes ; she would kiss his shoe- 
buckles, only that the kissing of his shoebuckles would bring upon 
him that injury which he should never suffer from her hands ! He had 
been generous, and her self-pride was satisfied. But her other pride 
was touched, and she also would be generous. " Can you not bring 
yourself to give me some answer ? " he had said to her. Of course she 
must give him an answer, but how should she give it ? 

" You are very kind," she said. 

" I would be more than kind." 

" So jou. are. Kind is a cold word when used to such a friend at 
such a time." 

" I would be everything on earth to you that a man can be to a 

" I know I ought to thank you if I knew how. My heart is full of 
thanks ; it is, indeed." 

" And is there no room for love there ? " 

"There is no room for love in our house, Major Grantly. You 
have not seen papa." 

" No ; but, if you wish it, I will do so at once." 

" It would do no good, none. I only asked you because you can 
hardly know how sad is our state at home." 

" But I cannot see that that need deter you, if you can love me." 

" Can you not ? If you saw him, and the house, and my mother, you 
would not say so. In the Bible it is said of some season that it is not a 
time for marrying, or for giving in marriage. And so it is with us." 

" I am not pressing you as to a day. I only ask you to say that 
you will be engaged to me, so that I may tell my own people, and let 
it be known." 

" I understand all that. I know how good you are. But, Major 


Grantly, you must understand me also when I assure you that it 
cannot be so." 

" Do you mean that you refuse me altogether ? " 

" Yes; altogether." 

" And why ? " 

" Must I answer that question ? Ought I to be made to answer it ? 
But I will tell you fairly, without touching on anything else, that I feel that 
we are all disgraced, and that I will not take disgrace into another family." 

" Grace, do you love me ? " 

" I love no one now, that is, as you mean. I can love no one. 
I have no room for any feeling except for my father and mother, and 
for us all. I should not be here now but that I save niy mother the 
bread that I should eat at home." 

"Is it as bad as that?" 

" Yes, it is as bad as that. It is much worse than that, if you 
knew it all. You cannot conceive how low we have fallen. And now 
they tell me that my father will be found guilty, and will be sent to 
prison. Putting ourselves out of the question, what would you think 
of a girl who could engage herself to any man under such circum- 
stances ? What would you think of a girl who would allow herself to 
be in love in such a position ? Had I been ten times engaged to you 
I would have broken it off." Then she got up to leave him. 

But he stopped her, holding her by the arm. "What you have 
said will make me say what I certainly should never have said without 
it. I declare that we are engaged." 

" No, we are not," said Grace. 

" You have told me that you loved me." 

" I never told you so." 

" There are other ways of speaking than the voice ; and I will boast 
to you, though to no one else, that you have told me so. I believe you 
love me. I shall hold myself as engaged to you, and I shall think you 
false if I hear that you listen to another man. Now, good-by, Grace ; 
my own Grace." 

" No, I am not your own," she said, through her tears. 

" You are my own, my very own. God bless you, dear, dear, 
dearest Grace. You shall hear from me in a day or two, and shall see 
me as soon as this horrid trial is over." Then he took her in his 
arms before she could escape from him, and kissed her forehead and 
her lips, while she struggled in his arms. After that he left the room 
and the house as quickly as he could, and was seen no more of the 
.Dales upon that occasion. 



GKACE, when she was left alone, threw herself upon the sofa, and hid 
her face in her hands. She was weeping almost hysterically, and 
had been utterly dismayed and frightened by her lover's impetuosity. 
Things had gone after a fashion which her imagination had not painted 
to her as possible. Surely she had the power to refuse the man if she 
pleased. And yet she felt as she lay there weeping that she did in 
truth belong to him as part of his goods, and that her generosity had 
been foiled. She had especially resolved that she would not confess to 
any love for him. She had made no such confession. She had guarded 
herself against doing so with all the care which she knew how to use. 
But he had assumed the fact, and she had been unable to deny it. 
Could she have lied to him, and have sworn that she did not love him ? 
Could she have so perjured herself, even in support of her generosity ? 
Yes, she would have done so, so she told herself, if a moment had 
been given to her for thought. She ought to have done so, and she 
blamed herself for being so little prepared for the occasion. The lie 
would be useless now. Indeed, she would have no opportunity for 
telling it ; for of course she would not answer, would not even read 
his letter. Though he might know that she loved him, yet she would 
not be his wife. He had forced her secret from her, but he could not 
force her to marry him. She did love him, but he should never be 
disgraced by her love. 

After a while she was able to think of his conduct, and she 
believed that she ought to be very angry with him. He had taken her 
roughly in his arms, and had insulted her. He had forced a kiss from 
her. She had felt his arms warm and close and strong about her, and 
had not known whether she was in paradise or in purgatory. She was 
very angry with him. She would send back his letter to him without 
reading it, without opening it, if that might be possible. He had 
done that to her which nothing could justify. But yet, yet, yet 
how dearly she loved him ! Was he not a prince of men ? He had 
behaved badly, of course ; but had any man ever behaved so badly before 
in so divine a way ? Was it not a thousand pities that she should be 
driven to deny anything to a lover who so richly deserved everything 
that could be given to him ? He had kissed her hand as he let her go, 
and now, not knowing what she did, she kissed the spot on which she 


had felt his lips. His arm had been round her waist, and the old frock 
which she wore should be kept by her for ever, because it had been 
so graced. 

What was she now to say to Lily and to Lily's mother ? Of one 
thing there was no doubt. She would never tell them of her lover's 
wicked audacity. That was a secret never to be imparted to any ears. 
She would keep her resentment to herself, and not ask the protection 
of any vicarious wrath. He could never so sin again, that was certain ; 
and she would keep all knowledge and memory of the sin. for her own 
purposes. But how could it be that such a man as that, one so good 
though so sinful, so glorious though so great a trespasser, should have 
come to such a girl as her and have asked for her love ? Then she 
thought of her father's poverty and the misery of her own condition, 
and declared to herself that it was very wonderful. 

Lily was the first to enter the room, and she, before she did so, 
learned from the servant that Major Grantly had left the house. " I 
heard the door, miss, and then I saw the top of his hat out of the 
pantry window." Armed with this certain information Lily entered the 
drawing-room, and found Grace in the act of rising from the sofa. 

" Am I disturbing you ? " said Lily. 

" No ; not at all. l' am glad you have come. Kiss me, and be 
good to me." And she twined her arms about Lily and embraced her. 

" Am I not always good to you, you simpleton ? Has he been 
good ? " 

" I don't know what you mean ? " 

" And have you been good to him ? " 

" As good as I knew how, Lily." 

" And where is he ? " 

" He has gone away. I shall never see him any more, Lily." 

Then she hid her face upon her friend's shoulder and broke forth 
again into hysterical tears. 

" But tell me, Grace, what he said ; that is, if you mean to 
tell me ! " 

" I will tell you everything ; that is, everything I can." And 
Grace blushed as she thought of the one secret which she certainly 
would not tell. 

" Has he, has he done what I said he would do ? Come, speak 
out boldly. Has he asked you to be his wife ? " 

" Yes," said Grace, barely whispering the word. 

" And you have accepted him ? " 

" No, Lily, I have not. Indeed, I have not. I did not know 
how to speak, because I was surprised ; and he, of course, could 


say what he liked. But I told him as well as I could, that I would not 
marry him." 

" And why ; did you tell him why ? " 

" Yes ; because of papa ! " 

" Then, if he is the man I take him to be, that answer will go for 
nothing. Of course he knew all that before he came here. He did 
not think you were an heiress with forty thousand pounds. If he is in 
earnest, that will go for nothing. And I think he is in earnest." 

"And so was I in earnest." 

" Well, Grace ; we shall see." 

" I suppose I may have a will of my own, Lily." 

" Do not be so sure of that. Women are not allowed to have wills 
of their own on all occasions. Some man comes in a girl's way, and 
she gets to be fond of him, just because he does come in her way. 
Well ; when that has taken place, she has no alternative but to be 
taken if he chooses to take her ; or to be left, if he chooses to 
leave her." 

" Lily, don't say that." 

" But I do say it. A man may assure himself that he will find for 
himself a wife who shall be learned, or beautiful, or six feet high, if 
he wishes it, or who has red hair, or red eyes, or red cheeks, -just 
what he pleases ; and he may go about till he finds it, as you can go 
about and match your worsteds. You are a fool if you buy a colour 
you don't want. But we can never match our worsteds for that other 
piece of work, but are obliged to take any colour that comes, and, 
therefore, it is that we make such a jumble of it ! Here's mamma. 
We must not be philosophical before her. Mamma, Major Grantly has 

" Oh, Lily, what a word ! " 

" But, oh, mamma, what a thing ! Fancy his going away and not 
saying a word to anybody ! " 

" If he had anything to say to Grace, I suppose he said it." 

" He asked her to marry him, of course. We none of us had any 
doubt about that. He swore to her that she and none but she should 
be his wife, and all that kind of thing. But he seems to have done 
it in the most prosaic way ; and now he has gone away without saying 
a word to any of us. I shall never speak to him again, unless Grace 
asks me." 

" Grace, my dear, may I congratulate you ? " said Mrs. Dale. 

Grace did not answer, as Lily was too quick for her. " Oh, she 
has refused him, of course. But Major Grantly is a man of too much 
sense to expect that he should succeed the first time. Let nie see ; 


this is the fourteenth. These clocks run fourteen days, and, therefore, 
you may expect him again about the twenty-eighth. For myself, I 
think you are giving him an immense deal of unnecessary trouble, and 
that if he left you in the lurch it would only serve you right ; but you 
have the world with you, I'm told. A girl is supposed to tell a man 
two fibs before she may tell him one truth. 

" I told him no fib, Lily. I told him that I would not marry him, 
and I will not." 

" But why not, dear Grace ? " said Mrs. Dale. 

" Because the people say that papa is a thief ! " Having said this, 
Grace walked slowly out of the room, and neither Mrs. Dale nor Lily 
attempted to follow her. 

" She's as good as gold," said Lily, when the door was closed. 

" And he ; what of him ? " 

" I think he is good, too ; but she has told me nothing yet of what 
he has said to her. He must be good, or he would not have come down 
here after her. But I don't wonder at his coming, because she is so 
beautiful ! Once or twice as we were walking back to-day, I thought 
her face was the most lovely that I had ever seen. And did you see 
her just now, as she spoke of her father ? " 

" Oh, yes ; I saw her." 

" Think what she will be in two or three years' time, when she 
becomes a woman. She talks French, and Italian, and Hebrew for 
anything that I know ; and she is perfectly beautiful. I never saw a 
more lovely figure ; and she has spirit enough for a goddess. I don't 
think that Major Grantly is such a fool after all." 

" I never took him for a fool. 

" I have no doubt all his own people do ; or they will, when 
they hear of it. But, mamma, she will grow to be big enough to 
walk atop of all the Lady Hartletops in England. It will all come 
right at last." 

< You think it will ?" 

" Oh, yes. Why should it not ? If he is worth having, it will ; 
and I think he is worth having. He must wait till this horrid trial is 
over. It is clear to me that Grace thinks that her father will be 

" But he cannot have taken the money." 

"I think he took it, and I think it wasn't his. But I don't 
think he stole it. I don't know whether you can understand the 

" I am afraid a jury won't understand it." 

" A jury of men will not. I wish they could put you and me on 


it, mamma. I would take my best boots and eat them down to the 
heels, for Grace's sake, and for Major Grantly's. What a good-looking 
man he is ! " 

" Yes, he is." 

" And so like a gentleman ! I'll tell you what, mamma ; we won't 
say anything to her about him for the present. Her heart will be so 
full she will be driven to talk, and we can comfort her better in that 
way." The mother and daughter agreed to act upon these tactics, and 
nothing more was said to Grace about her lover on that evening. 

Major Grantly walked from Mrs. Dale's house to the inn and ordered 
his gig, and drove himself out of Allington, almost without remember- 
ing where he was or whither he was going. He was thinking solely of 
what had just occurred, and of what, on his part, should follow as the 
result of that meeting. Half at least of the noble deeds done in this 
world are due to emulation, rather than to the native nobility of the 
actors. A young man leads a forlorn hope because another young 
man has offered to do so. Jones in the hunting-field rides at an 
impracticable fence because he is told that Smith took it three years 
ago. And Walker puts his name down for ten guineas at a charitable 
dinner, when he hears Thompson's read out for five. And in this case 
the generosity and self-denial shown by Grace warmed and cherished 
similar virtues within her lover's breast. Some few weeks ago Major 
Grantly had been in doubt as to what his duty required of him in 
reference to Grace Crawley ; but he had no doubt whatsoever now. In 
the fervour of his admiration he would have gone straight to the 
archdeacon, had it been possible, and have told him what he had done 
and what he intended to do. Nothing now should stop him ; no 
consideration, that is, either as regarded money or position. He had 
pledged himself solemnly, and he was very glad that he had pledged 
himself. He would write to Grace and explain to her that he trusted 
altogether in her father's honour and innocence, but that no consideration 
as to that ought to influence either him or her in any way. If, 
independently of her father, she could bring herself to come to him and 
be his wife, she was bound to do so now, let the position of her father 
be what it might. And thus, as he drove his gig back towards 
Guestwick, he composed a very pretty letter to the lady of his love. 

And as he went, at the corner of the lane which led from the main 
road up to Guestwick cottage, he again came upon John Eames, who 
was also returning to Guestwick. There had been a few words spoken 
between Lady Julia and Johnny respecting Major Grantly after the 
girls had left the cottage, and Johnny had been persuaded that the 
strange visitor to Allington could have no connection with his arch- 


enemy. " And why has he gone to Allington ? " John demanded, 
somewhat sternly, of his hostess. 

" Well ; if you ask me, I think he has gone there to see your cousin, 
Grace Crawley." 

"He told me that he knew Grace," said John, looking as though 
he were conscious of his own ingenuity in putting two and two together 
very cleverly. 

"Your cousin Grace is a very pretty girl," said Lady Julia. 

" It's a long time since I've seen her," said Johnny. 

" Why, you saw her just this minute," said Lady Julia. 

"I didn't look at her," said Johnny. Therefore, when he again 
met Major Grantly, having continued to put two and two together with 
great ingenuity, he felt quite sure that the man had nothing to do with 
the arch-enemy, and he determined to be gracious. "Did you find 
them at home at Allington ? " he said, raising his hat. 

" How do you do again ? " said the major. " Yes, I found your 
friend Mrs. Dale at home." 

" But not her daughter, or my cousin ? They were up there ; 
where I've come from. But, perhaps, they had got back before you left." 

" I saw them both. They found me on the road with Mr. Dale." 

" What, the squire ? Then you have seen everybody ? " 

" Everybody I wished to see at Allington." 

" But you wouldn't stay at the ' Bed Lion ? '" 

" Well, no. I remembered that I wanted to get back to London ; 
and as I had seen my friends, I thought I might as well hurry away." 

" You knew Mrs. Dale before, then ? " 

" No, I didn't. I never saw her in my life before. But I knew the 
old squire when I was a boy. However, I should have said friend. I 
went to see one friend, and I saw her." 

John Eames perceived that his companion put a strong emphasis on 
the word " her," as though he were determined to declare boldly that 
he had gone to Allington solely to see Grace Crawley. He had not the 
slightest objection to recognizing in Major Grantly a suitor for his 
cousin's hand. He could only reflect what an unusually fortunate girl 
Grace must be if such'a thing could be true. Of those poor Crawleys 
he had only heard from time to time that their misfortunes were as 
numerous as the sands on the sea- shore, and as unsusceptible of any 
fixed and permanent arrangement. But, as regarded Grace, here would 
be a very .permanent arrangement. Tidings had reached him that Grace 
was a great scholar, but he had never heard much of her beauty. It 
must probably be the case that Major Grantly was fond of Greek. 
There was, he reminded himself, no accounting for tastes ; but as 


nothing could be more respectable than such an alliance, he thought 
that it would become him to be civil to the major. 

" I hope you found her quite well. I had barely time to speak to 
her myself." 

" Yes, she was very well. This is a sad thing about her father." 

" Very sad," said Johnny. Perhaps the major had heard about 
the accusation for the first time to-day, and was going to find an escape 
on that plea. If such was the case, it would not be so well to be 
particularly civil. 

" I believe Mr. Crawley is a cousin of yours ? " said the major. 

" His wife is my mother's first-cousin. Their mothers were sisters." 

" She is an excellent woman." 

" I believe so. I don't know much about them myself, that is, 
personally. Of course I have heard of this charge that has been made 
against him. It seems to me to be a great shame." 

" Well, I can't exactly say that it is a shame. I do not know that 
there has been anything done with a feeling of persecution or of cruelty. 
It is a great mystery, and we must have it cleared up if we can." 

" I don't suppose he can have been guilty," said Johnny. 

" Certainly not in the ordinary sense of the word. I heard all 
the evidence against him." 

< 'Oh, you did?" 

" Yes," said the major. " I live near them in Barsetshire, and I 
am one of his bailsmen." 

" Then you are an old friend, I suppose ? " 

"Not exactly that; but circumstances make me very much inte- 
rested about them. I fancy that the cheque was left in his house by 
accident, and that it got into his hands he didn't know how, and that 
when he used it he thought it was his." 

" That's queer," said Johnny. 

" He is very odd, you know." 

" But it's a kind of oddity that they don't like at the assizes." 

" The great cruelty is," said the major, " that whatever may be the 
result, the punishment will fall so heavily upon his wife and daughters. 
I think the whole county ought to come forward and take them by the 
hand. Well, good-by. I'll drive on, as I'm a little in a hurry." 

" Good-by," said Johnny. " I'm very glad to have had the 
pleasure of meeting you." " He's a good sort of a fellow after all," he 
said to himself when the gig had passed on. "He wouldn't have 
talked in that way if he had meant to hang back." 



R. CRAWLEY had declared 
to Mr. Robarts, that he would 
summon no legal aid to his 
assistance at the coming trial. 
The reader may, perhaps, re- 
member the impetuosity with 
which he rejected the advice 
on this subject which was con- 
veyed to him by Mr. Robarts 
with all the authority of Arch- 
deacon Grantly's name. " Tell 
the archdeacon," he had said, 
" that I will have none of 
his advice." And then Mr. 
Robarts had left him, fully 
convinced that any further in- 
terference on his part could 
be of no avail. Nevertheless, 

the words which had then been spoken were not without effect. This 
coming trial was ever present to Mr. Crawley's mind, and though, 
when driven to discuss the subject, he would speak of it with high 
spirit, as he had done both to the bishop and to Mr. Robarts, yet in 
his long hours of privacy, or when alone with his wife, his spirit was 
anything but high. " It will kill me," he would say to her. " I shall 
get salvation thus. Death will relieve me, and I shall never be called 
upon to stand before those cruel eager eyes." Then would she try to 
say words of comfort, sometimes soothing him as though he were a 
child, and at others bidding him be a man, and remember that as a 
man he should have sufficient endurance to bear the eyes of any crowd 
that there to look at him. 

" I think I will go up to London," he said to her one evening, very 
soon after the day of Mr. Robarts' s visit. 

" Go up to London, Josiah! " Mr. Crawley had not been up to 
London once since they had been settled at Hogglestock, and this 

2II A A 


sudden resolution on his part frightened his wife. " Go up to London, 
dearest ! and why ? " 

" I will tell you why. They all say that I should speak to some 
man of the law whom I may trust about this coming trial. I trust no 
one in these parts. Not, mark you, that I say that they are untrust- 
worthy. God forbid that I should so speak or even so think of men 
whom I know not. But the matter has become so common in men's 
mouths at Barchester and at Silverbridge, that I cannot endure to go 
among them and to talk of it. I will go up to London, and I will see 
your cousin, Mr. John Toogood, of Gray's Inn." Now in Ibis scheme 
there was an amount of everyday prudence which startled Mrs. Crawley 
almost as much as did the prospect of the difficulties to be overcome if 
the journey were to be made. Her husband, in the first place, had never 
once seen Mr. John Toogood ; and in days very long back, when he and 
she were making their first gallant struggle, for in those days it had 
been gallant, down in their Cornish curacy, he had reprobated certain 
Toogood civilities, professional civilities, which had been proffered, 
perhaps, with too plain an intimation that on the score of relationship the 
professional work should be done without payment. The Mr. Toogood 
of those days, who had been Mrs. Crawley 's uncle, and the father of Mrs. 
Eames and grandfather of our friend Johnny Eames, had been much 
angered by some correspondence which had grown up between him and 
Mr. Crawley, and from that day there had been a cessation of all inter- 
course between the families. Since those days that Toogood had been 
gathered to the ancient Toogoods of old, and the son reigned on the 
family throne in Eaymond's Buildings. The present Toogood was 
therefore first-cousin to Mrs. Crawley. But there had been no intimacy 
between them. Mrs. Crawley had not seen her cousin since her marriage, 
as indeed she had seen none of her relations, having been estranged 
from them by the singular bearing of her husband. She knew that her 
cousin stood high in his profession, the firm of Toogood and Crump, 
Crump and Toogood it should have been properly called in these days, 
having always held its head up high above all dirty work ; and she 
felt that her husband could look for advice from no better source. But 
how would such a one as he manage to tell his story to a stranger ? 
Nay, how would he find his way alone into the lawyer's room, to tell his 
story at all, so strange was he to the world ? And then the expense ! 
"If you do not wish me to apply to your cousin, say so, and there 
shall be an end of it," said Mr. Crawley in an angry tone. 

" Of course I would wish it. I believe him to be an excellent man, 
and a good lawyer." 


" Then why should I not go to his chambers ? In forma pauperis 
I must go to him, and must tell him so. I cannot pay him for the 
labour of his counsel, nor for such minutes of his time as I shall use." 

" Oh, Josiah, you need not speak of that." 

" But I must speak of it. Can I go to a professional man, who 
keeps as it were his shop open for those who may think fit to come, 
and purchase of him, and take of his goods, and afterwards, when the 
goods have been used, tell him that I have not the price in my hand ? 
I will not do that, Mary. You think that I am mad, that I know not 
what I do. Yes, I see it in your eyes ; and you are sometimes partly 
right. But I am not so mad but that I know what is honest. I will 
tell your cousin that I am sore straitened, and brought down into the 
very dust by misfortune. And I will beseech him, for what of ancient 
feeling of family he may bear to you, to listen to me for a while. And 
I will be very short, and, if need be, will bide his time patiently, and 
perhaps he may say a word to me that may be of use." 

There was certainly very much in this to provoke Mrs. Crawley. It 
was not only that she knew well that her cousin would give ample and 
immediate attention, and lend himself thoroughly to the matter without 
any idea of payment, but that she could not quite believe that her 
husband's humility was true humility. She strove to believe it, but 
knew that she failed. After all it was only a feeling on her part. 
There was no argument within herself about it. An unpleasant taste 
came across the palate of her mind, as such a savour will sometimes, 
from some unexpected source, come across the palate of the mouth. 
Well ; she could only gulp at it, and swallow it and excuse it. Among 
the salad that comes from your garden a bitter leaf will now and then 
make its way into your salad-bowl. Alas, there were so many bitter 
leaves ever making their way into her bowl ! " What I mean is, 
Josiah, that no long explanation will be needed. I think, from what 
I remember of him, that he would do for us anything that he could do." 

" Then I will go to the man, and will humble myself before him. 
Even that, hard as it is to me, may be a duty that I owe." Mr. Crawley 
as he said this was remembering the fact that he was a clergyman of 
the Church of England, and that he had a rank of his own in the 
country, which, did he ever do such a thing as go out to dinner in com- 
pany, would establish for him a certain right of precedence ; whereas 
this attorney, of whom he was speaking, was, so to say, nobody in the 
eyes of the world. 

" There need be no humbling, Josiah, other than that which is due 
from man to man in all circumstances. But never mind ; we will not 

A A 2 


talk about that. If it seems good to you, go to Mr. Toogood. I think 
that it is good. May I write to him and say that you will go ? " 

" I will write myself; it will be more seemly." 

Then the wife paused before she asked the next question, paused 
for some minute or two, and then asked it with anxious doubt, " And 
may I go with you, Josiah ? " 

" Why should two go when one can do the work?" he answered 
sharply. " Have we money so much at command ?" 

" Indeed, no." 

" You should go and do it all, for you are wiser in these things 
than I am, were it not that I may not dare to show that I submit 
myself to my wife." 

" Nay, my dear! " 

" But it is ay, my dear. It is so. This is a thing such as men 
do ; not such as women do, unless they be forlorn and unaided of men. 
I know that I am weak where you are strong ; that I am crazed where 
you are clear- witted. 

" I meant not that, Josiah. It was of your health that I thought." 

" Nevertheless it is as I say; but, for all that, it may not be that 
you should do my work. There are those watching me who would 
say, ' Lo ! he confesses himself incapable.' And then some one would 
whisper something of a madhouse. Mary, I fear that worse than a 

" May God in His mercy forbid such cruelty ! " 

" But I must look to it, my dear. Do you think that that woman, 
who sits there at Barchester in high places, disgracing herself and that 
puny ecclesiastical lord who is her husband, do you think that she 
would not immure me if she could ? She is a she-wolf, only less 
reasonable than the dumb brute as she sharpens her teeth in malice 
coming from anger, and not in malice coming from hunger as do 
the outer wolves of the forest. I tell you, Mary, that if she had a 
colourable ground for her action, she would swear to-morrow that I 
am mad." 

" You shall go alone to London." 

" Yes, I will go alone. They shall not say that I cannot yet do my 
own work as a man should do it. I stood up before him, the puny 
man who is called a bishop, and before her who makes herself great by 
his littleness, and I scorned them both to their faces. Though the 
shoes which I had on were all broken, as I myself could not but see 
when I stood, yet I was greater than they were with all their purple 
and fine linen." 


" But, Josiah, my cousin will not be harsh to you." 

11 Well, and if he be not ? " 

" Ill-usage you can bear ; and violent ill-usage, such as that which 
Mrs. Proudie allowed herself to exhibit, you can repay with interest ; 
but kindness seems to be too heavy a burden for you." 

" I will struggle. I will endeavour. I will speak but little, and, if 
possible, I will listen much. Now, my dear, I will write to this man, 
and you shall give me the address that is proper for him." Then he 
wrote the letter, not accepting a word in the way of dictation from his 
wife, but " craving the great kindness of a short interview, for which 
he ventured to become a solicitor, urged thereto by his wife's assurance 
that one with whom he was connected by family ties would do as much 
as this for the possible preservation of the honour of the family." In 
answer to this, Mr. Toogood wrote back as follows : " Dear Mr. 
Crawley, I will be at my office all Thursday morning next from ten 
to two, and will take care that you shan't be kept waiting for me above 
ten minutes. You parsons never like waiting. But hadn't you better 
come and breakfast with me and Maria at nine ? then we'd have a talk 
as we walk to the office. Yours always, THOMAS TOOGOOD." And 
the letter was dated from the attorney's private house in Tavistock 

" I am sure he means to be kind," said Mrs. Crawley. 

" Doubtless he means to be kind. But his kindness is rough ; I 
will not say unmannerly, as the word would be harsh. I have never 
even seen the lady whom he calls Maria." 

" She is his wife ! " 

" So I would venture to suppose ; but she is unknown to me. I 
will write again, and thank him, and say that I will be with him at ten 
to the moment." 

There were still many things to be settled before the journey could 
be made. Mr. Crawley, in his first plan, proposed that he should go 
up by night mail train, travelling in the third class, having walked over 
to Silverbridge to meet it ; that he should then walk about London 
from 5 A.M. to 10 A.M., and afterwards come down by an afternoon 
train to which a third class was also attached. But at last his wife 
persuaded him that such a task as that, performed in the middle of the 
winter, would be enough to kill any man, and that, if attempted, it 
would certainly kill him ; and he consented at last to sleep the night in 
town, being specially moved thereto by discovering that he could, in 
conformity with this scheme, get in and out of the train at a station 
considerably nearer to him than Silverbridge, and that he could get a 


return-ticket at a third-class fare. The whole journey, he found, could 
be done for a pound, allowing him seven shillings for his night's expenses 
in London ; and out of the resources of the family there were produced 
two sovereigns, so that in the event of accident he would not utterly be 
a castaway from want of funds. 

So he started on his journey after an early dinner, almost hopeful 
through the new excitement of a journey to London, and his wife 
walked with him nearly as far as the station. " Do not reject my 
cousin's kindness," were the last words she spoke. 

" For his professional kindness, if he will extend it to me, I will be 
most thankful," he replied. She did not dare to say more ; nor had 
she dared to write privately to her cousin, asking for any special help, 
lest by doing so she should seem to impugn the sufficiency and stability 
of her husband's judgment. He got up to town late at night, and 
having made inquiry of one of the porters, he hired a bed for himself 
in the neighbourhood of the railway station. Here he had a cup of 
tea and a morsel of bread-and-butter, and in the morning he breakfasted 
again on the same fare. " No, I have no luggage," he had said to the 
girl at the public-house, who had asked him as to his travelling gear. 
" If luggage be needed as a certificate of respectability, I will pass on 
elsewhere," said he. The girl stared, and assured him that she did 
not doubt his respectability. " I am a clergyman of the Church of 
England," he had said, " but my circumstances prevent me from seeking 
a more expensive lodging." They did their best to make him comfort- 
able, and, I think, almost disappointed him in not heaping further 
misfortunes on his head. 

He was in Raymond's Buildings at half-pa.t nine, and for half an 
hour walked up and down the umbrageous pavement, it used to be 
umbrageous, but perhaps the trees have gone now, before the doors of 
the various chambers. He could hear the clock strike from Gray's 
Inn ; and the moment that it had struck he was turning in, but was 
encountered in the passage by Mr. Toogood, who was equally punctual 
with himself. Strange stories about Mr. Crawley had reached Mr. 
Toogood' s household, and that Maria, the mention of whose Christian 
name had been so offensive to the clergyman, had begged her husband 
not to be a moment late. Poor Mr. Toogood, who on ordinary days 
did perhaps take a few minutes' grace, was thus hurried away almost with 
his breakfast in his throat, and, as we have seen, just saved himself. 
" Perhaps, sir, you are Mr. Crawley?" he said, in a good-humoured, 
cheery voice. He was a good-humoured, cheery-looking man, about 
fifty years of age, with grizzled hair and sunburnt face, and large 


whiskers. Nobody would have taken him to be a partner in any of 
those great houses of which we have read in history, the Quirk, 
Gammon and Snaps of the profession, or the Dodson and Foggs, who 
are immortal. 

" That is my name, sir," said Mr. Crawley, taking off his hat and 
bowing low, " and I am here by appointment to meet Mr. Toogood, 
the solicitor, whose name I see affixed upon the door-post." 

" I am Mr. Toogood, the solicitor, and I hope I see you quite well, 
Mr. Crawley." Then the attorney shook hands with the clergyman and 
preceded him upstairs to the front room on the first floor. " Here 
we are, Mr. Crawley, and pray take a chair. I wish you could have 
made it convenient to come and see us at home. We are rather long, 
as my wife says, long in family, she means, and therefore are not very 
well off for spare beds " 

" Oh, sir." 

" I've twelve of 'em living, Mr. Crawley, from eighteen years, the 
eldest, a girl, down to eighteen months the youngest, a boy, and they 
go in and out, boy and girl, boy and girl, like the cogs of a wheel. 
They ain't such far away distant cousins from your own young ones 
only first, once, as we call it." 

" I am aware that there is a family tie, or I should not have 
ventured to trouble you." 

" Blood is thicker than water ; isn't it ? I often say that. I heard 
of one of your girls only yesterday. She is staying somewhere down 
in the country, not far from where my sister lives Mrs. Eames, the 
widow of poor John Eames, who never did any good in this world. I 
daresay you've heard of her ? " 

" The name is familiar to me, Mr. Toogood." 

" Of course it is. I've a nephew down there just now, and he saw 
your girl the other day ; very highly he spoke of her too. Let me 
see ; how many is it you have ? " 

" Three living, Mr. Toogood." 

" I've just four times three ; that's the difference. But I com- 
fort myself with the text about the quiver you know ; and I tell them 
that when they've eat up all the butter, they'll have to take their bread 

" I trust the young people take your teaching in a proper spirit." 

11 1 don't know much about spirit. There's spirit enough. My 
second girl, Lucy, told me that if I came home to-day without tickets 
for the pantomime I shouldn't have any dinner allowed me. That's the 
way they treat me. But we understand each other at home. We're all 


pretty good friends there, thank God. And there isn't a sick chick 
among the boiling." 

" You have many mercies for which you should indeed be thankful," 
said Mr. Crawley, gravely. 

" Yes, yes, yes ; that's true. I think of that sometimes, though 
perhaps not so much as I ought to do. But the best way to be thankful 
is to use the goods the gods provide you. ' The lovely Thais sits 
beside you. Take the goods the gods provide you.' I often say that 
to my wife, till the children have got to calling her Thais. The children 
have it pretty much their own way with us, Mr. Crawley." 

By this time Mr. Crawley was almost beside himself, and was 
altogether at a loss how to bring in the matter on which he wished to 
speak. He had expected to find a man who in the hurry of London 
business might perhaps just manage to spare him five minutes, who 
would grapple instantly with the subject that was to be discussed between 
them, would speak to him half-a-dozen hard words of wisdom, and would 
then dismiss him and turn on the instant to other matters of important 
business ; but here was an easy familiar fellow, who seemed to have 
nothing on earth to do, and who at this first meeting had taken 
advantage of a distant family connexion to tell him everything about 
the affairs of his own household. And then how peculiar were the 
domestic traits which he told ! What was Mr. Crawley to say to a man 
who had taught his own children to call their mother Thais ? Of Thais 
Mr. Crawley did know something, and he forgot to remember that 
perhaps Mr. Toogood knew less. He felt it, however, to be very 
difficult to submit the details of his case to a gentleman who talked in 
such a strain about his own wife and children. 

But something must be done. Mr. Crawley, in his present frame 
of mind, could not sit and talk about Thais all day. " Sir," he said, 
" the picture of your home is very pleasant, and I presume that 
plenty abounds there." 

" Well, you know, pretty toll-loll for that. With twelve of 'em, 
Mr. Crawley, I needn't tell you they are not all going to have castles 
and parks of their own, unless they can get 'em off their own bats. 
But I pay upwards of a hundred a year each for my eldest three boys' 
schooling, and I've been paying eighty for the girls. Put that and 
that together and see what it comes to. Educate, educate, educate ; 
that's my word." 

" No better word can be spoken, sir." 

" I don't think there's a girl in Tavistock Square that can beat 
Polly, she's the eldest, called after her mother, you know ; that can 


beat her at the piano. And Lucy has read Lord Byron and Tom 
Moore all through, every word of 'em. By Jove, I believe she knows 
most of Tom Moore by heart. And the young uns are coming on 
just as well." 

" Perhaps, sir, as your time is, no doubt, precious " 

" Just at this time of the day we don't care so much about it, 
Mr. Crawley ; and one doesn't catch a new cousin every day, you 

" However, if you will allow me, 

" We'll tackle to ? Very well ; so be it. Now, Mr. Crawley, let 
me hear what it is that I can do for you." Of a sudden, as Mr. 
Toogood spoke these last words, the whole tone of his voice seemed to 
change, and even the position of his body became so much altered as 
to indicate a different kind of man. " You just tell your story in your 
own way, and I won't interrupt you till you've done. That's always 
the best." 

" I must first crave your attention to an unfortunate preliminary," 
said Mr. Crawley. 

" And what is that ?" 

" I come before you in forma pauperis." Here Mr. Crawley 
paused and stood up before the attorney with his hands crossed one 
upon the other, bending low, as though calling attention to the poor- 
ness of his raiment. "I know that I have no justification for my 
conduct. I have nothing of reason to offer why I should trespass 
upon your time. I am a poor man, and cannot pay you for your 

" Oh, bother ! " said Mr. Toogood, jumping up out of his chair. 

" I do not know whether your charity will grant me that which 
I ask " 

" Don't let's have any more of this," said the attorney. " We 
none of us like this kind of thing at all. If I can be of any service to 
you, you're as welcome to it as flowers in May ; and as for billing my 
first-cousin, which your wife is, I should as soon think of sending in 
an account to my own." 

"But, Mr. Toogood, " 

" Do you go on now with your story ; I'll put the rest all right." 
. " I was bound to be explicit, Mr. Toogood." 

"Very well; now you have been explicit with a vengeance, and 
you may heave a-head. Let's hear the story, and if I can help you 
I will. When I've said that, you may be sure I mean it. I've heard 
something of it before ; but let me hear it all from you." 


Then Mr. Crawley began and told the story. Mr. Toogood was 
actually true to his promise and let the narrator go on with his narra- 
tive without interruption. When Mr. Crawley came to his own state- 
ment that the cheque had been paid to him by Mr. Soames, and went 
on to say that that statement had been false, " I told him that, but I 
told him so wrongly," and then paused, thinking that the lawyer would 
ask some question, Mr. Toogood simply said, " Go on ; go on. I'll 
come back to all that when you've done." And he merely nodded his 
head when Mr. Crawley spoke of his second statement, that the money 
had come from the dean. " We had been bound together by close 
ties of early familiarity," said Mr. Crawley, " and in former years our 
estates in life were the same. But he has prospered and I have failed. 
And when creditors were importunate, I consented to accept relief in 
money which had previously been often offered. And I must acknow- 
ledge, Mr. Toogood, while saying this, that I have known, have 
known with heartfelt agony, that at former times my wife has taken 
that from my friend Mr. Arabin, with hand half-hidden from me, which 
I have refused. Whether it be better to eat the bread of charity, 
or not to eat bread at all, I, for myself, have no doubt," he said ; 
"but when the want strikes one's wife and children, and the charity 
strikes only oneself, then there is a doubt." When he spoke thus, 
Mr. Toogood got up, and thrusting his hands into his waistcoat pockets 
walked about the room, exclaiming, " By George, by George, by 
George ! " But he still let the man go on with his story, and heard 
him out at last to the end. 

" And they committed you for trial at the next Barchester assizes ? " 
said the lawyer. 

"They did." 

" And you employed no lawyer before the magistrates ? " 

" None ; I refused to employ any one." 

" You were wrong there, Mr. Crawley. I must be allowed to say 
that you were wrong there." 

" I may possibly have been so from your point of view, Mr. 
Toogood ; but permit me to explain. I " 

"It's no good explaining now. Of course you must employ a 
lawyer for your defence, an attorney who will put the case into the 
hands of counsel." 

" But that I cannot do, Mr. Toogood." 

" You must do it. If you don't do it, your friends should do it for 
you. If you don't do it, everybody will say you're mad. There isn't a 
single solicitor you could find within half a mile of you at this moment 


who wouldn't give you the same advice, not a single man, either, who 
has got a head on his shoulders worth a turnip." 

When Mr. Crawley was told that madness would be laid to his 
charge if he did not do as he was bid, his face became very black, and 
assumed something of that look of determined obstinacy which it had 
worn when he was standing in the presence of the bishop and Mrs. 
Proudie. " It may be so," he said. " It may be as you say, 
Mr. Toogood. But these neighbours of yours, as to whose collected 
wisdom you speak with so much certainty, would hardly recommend 
me to indulge in a luxury for which I have no means of paying." 

" Who thinks about paying under such circumstances as these ? " 

"I do, Mr. Toogood." 

" The wretchedest costermonger that comes to grief has a barrister 
in a wig and gown to give him his chance of escape." 

" But I am not a costermonger, Mr. Toogood, though more 
wretched perhaps than any costermonger now in existence. It is my 
lot to have to endure the sufferings of poverty, and at the same time 
not to be exempt from those feelings of honour to which poverty is 
seldom subject. I cannot afford to call in legal assistance for which I 
cannot pay, and I will not do it." 

" I'll carry the case through for you. It certainly is not just my 
line of business, but I'll see it carried through for you." 

" Out of your own pocket ? " 

" Never mind ; when I say I'll do a thing, I'll do it." 

" No, Mr. Toogood ; this thing you can not do. But do not 
suppose I am the less grateful." 

" What is it I can do then ? Why do you come to me if you won't 
take my advice ? " 

After this the conversation went on for a considerable time without 
touching on any point which need be brought palpably before the 
reader's eye. The attorney continued to beg the clergyman to have his 
case managed in the usual way, and went so far as to tell him that he 
would be ill-treating his wife and family if he continued to be obstinate. 
But the clergyman was not shaken from his resolve, and was at last 
able to ask Mr. Toogood what he had better do, how he had better 
attempt to defend himself, on the understanding that no legal aid was 
to be employed. When this question was at last asked in such a way 
as to demand an answer, Mr. Toogood sat for a moment or two in 
silence. He felt that an answer was not only demanded, but almost 
enforced ; and yet there might be much difficulty in giving it. 

" Mr. Toogood," said Mr. Crawley, seeing the attorney's hesitation, 


" I declare to you before God, that my only object will be to enable the 
jury to know about this sad matter all that I know myself. If I could 
open my breast to them I should be satisfied. But then a prisoner can 
say nothing ; and what he does say is ever accounted false." 

" That is why you should have legal assistance." 

" We had already come to a conclusion on that matter, as I 
thought," said Mr. Crawley. 

Mr. Toogood paused for another moment or two, and then dashed 
at his answer ; or rather, dashed at a counter question. " Mr. Crawley, 
where did you get the cheque ? You must pardon me, you know ; or, 
if you wish it, I will not press the question. But so much hangs on 
that, you know." 

" Every thing would hang on it, if I only knew." 

" You mean that you forget ? " 

. " Absolutely ; totally. I wish, Mr. Toogood, I could explain to 
you the toilsome perseverance with which I have cudgelled my poor 
brains, endeavouring to extract from them some scintilla of memory 
that would aid me." 

" Could you have picked it up in the house ? " 

" No ; no ; that I did not do. Dull as I am, I know so much. 
It was mine of right, from whatever source it came to me. I know 
myself as no one else can know me, in spite of the wise man's motto. 
Had I picked up a cheque in my house, or on the road, I should not 
have slept till I had taken steps to restore it to the seeming owner. 
So much I can say. But, otherwise, I am in such matters so shandy- 
pated, that I ' can trust myself to be sure of nothing. I thought ; I 
certainly thought " 

"You thought what?" 

" I thought that it had been given to me by my friend the dean. 
I remember well that I was in his library at Barchester, and I was 
somewhat provoked in spirit. There were lying on the floor hundreds 
of volumes, all glittering with gold, and reeking with new leather from 
the binders. He asked me to look at his toys. Why should I look at 
them ? There was a time, but the other day it seemed, when he had 
been glad to borrow from me such treasures as I had. And it seemed 
to me that he was heartless in showing me these things. Well ; I need 
not trouble you with all that." 

"Go on ; go on. Let me hear it all, and I shall learn some- 

" I know now how vain, how vile I was. I always know afterwards 
how low the spirit has grovelled. I had gone to him then because I had 


resolved to humble myself, and, for my wife's sake, to ask my friend 
for money. With words which were very awkward, which no doubt 
were ungracious I had asked him, and he had bid me follow 
him from his hall into his library. There he left me awhile, and on 
returning told me with a smile that he had sent for money, and, if I 
can remember, the sum he named was fifty pounds." 

" But it has turned out, as you say, that you have payed fifty 
pounds with his money, besides the cheque." 

" That is true; that is quite true. There is no doubt of that. 
But as I was saying, then he fell to talking about the books, and I 
was angered. I was very sore in my heart. From the moment in 
which the words of beggary had passed from my lips, I had repented. 
And he had laughed and had taken it gaily. I turned upon him and 
told him that I had changed my mind. I was grateful, but I would 
not have his money. And so I prepared to go. But he argued with 
me, and would not let me go, telling me of my wife and of niy 
children, and while he argued there came a knock at the door, and 
something was handed in, and I knew that it was the hand of his wife." 

" It was the money, I suppose ? " 

"Yes, Mr. Toogood ; it was the money. And I became the more 
uneasy, because she herself is rich. I liked it the less because it 
seemed to come from her hand. But I took it. What could I do when 
he reminded me that I could not keep my parish unless certain sums 
were paid ? He gave me a little parcel in a cover, and I took it, and 
left him sorrowing. I had never before come quite to that ; though, 
indeed, it had in fact been often so before. What was the difference 
whether the alms were given into my hands or into my wife's ? " 

" You are too touchy about it all, Mr. Crawley." 

" Of course I am. Do you try it, and see whether you will be 
touchy. You have worked hard at your profession, I daresay." 

" Well, yes ; pretty well. To tell the truth, I have worked hard. 
By George, yes ! It's not so bad now as it used to be." 

" But you have always earned your bread ; bread for yourself, 
and bread for your wife and little ones. You can buy tickets for the 

" I couldn't always buy tickets, mind you." 

" I have worked as hard, and yet I cannot get bread. I am older 
than you, and I cannot earn my bare bread. Look at my clothes. 
If you had to go and beg from Mr. Crump, would not you be touchy ? " 

" As it happens, Crump isn't so well off as I am." 

" Never mind. But I took it, and went home, and for two days I 


did not look at it. And then there came an illness upon me, and 
I know not what passed. But two men who had been hard on me 
came to the house when I was out, and my wife was in a terrible 
state ; and I gave her the money, and she went into Silverbridge and 
paid them. 

" And this cheque was with what you gave her ? " 

" No ; I gave her money in notes, -just fifty pounds. When I gave 
it her, I thought I gave it all ; and yet afterwards I thought I remem- 
bered that in my illness I had found the cheque with the dean's 
money. But it was not so." 

" You are sure of that ? " 

" He has said that he put five notes of 10L each into the cover, 
and such notes I certainly gave to my wife." 

" Where then did you get the cheque ? " Mr. Crawley again paused 
before he answered. " Surely, if you will exert your mind, you will 
remember," said the lawyer. " Where did you get the cheque ? " 

" I do not know." 

Mr. Toogood threw himself back in his chair, took his knee up 
into his lap to nurse it, and began to think of it. He sat thinking of 
it for some minutes without a word, perhaps for five minutes, though 
the time seemed to be much longer to Mr. Crawley, who was, however, 
determined that he would not interrupt him. And Mr. Toogood's 
thoughts were at variance with Mr. Toogood's former words. Perhaps, 
after all, this scheme of Mr. Crawley's, or rather the mode of defence 
on which he had resolved without any scheme, might be the best of 
which the case admitted. It might be well that he should go into 
court without a lawyer. " He has convinced me of his innocence," 
Mr. Toogood said to himself, " and why should he not convince a 
jury ? He has convinced me, not because I am specially soft, or 
because I love the man, for as to that I dislike him rather than 
otherwise ; but because there is either real truth in his words, or else 
so well-feigned a show of truth that no jury can tell the difference. I 
think it is true. By George, I think he did get the twenty pounds 
honestly, and that he does not this moment know where he got it. He 
may have put his finger into my eye ; but, if so, why not also into the 
eyes of a jury ? " Then he released his leg, and spoke something of 
his thoughts aloud. " It's a sad story," he said ; " a very sad story." 

" Well, yes, it's sad enough. If you could see my house, you'd 
say so." 

" I haven't a doubt but what you're as innocent as I am." Mr. 
Toogood, as he said this, felt a little twinge of conscience. He did 


believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his 
words would seem to imply. Nevertheless he repeated the words 
again ; " as innocent as I am." 

" I don't know," said Mr. Crawley. " I don't know. I think I 
am ; but I don't know." 

" I believe you are. But you see the case is a very distressing one. 
A jury has a right to say that the man in possession of a cheque for 
twenty pounds should account for his possession of it. If I understand 
the story aright, Mr. Soames will be able to prove that he brought the 
cheque into your house, and, as far as he knows, never took it out 

" I suppose so ; all the same, if he brought it in, then did he also 
take it out again." 

" I am saying what he will prove, or, in other words, what he will 
state upon oath. You can't contradict him. You can't get into the 
box to do it, even if that would be of any avail ; and I am glad that 
you cannot, as it would be of no avail. And you can put no one else 
into the box who can do so." 

No ; no." 

" That is to say, we think you cannot do so. People can do so 
many things that they don't think they can do ; and can't do so many 
things that they think that they can do ! When will the dean be 
home ? " 

" I don't know." 

" Before the trial ? " 

" I don't know. I have no idea." 

" It's almost a toss-up whether he'd do more harm or good if he 
were there." 

" I wish he might be there if he has anything to say, whether it 
might be for harm or good." 

" And Mrs. Arabin ; she is with him ? " 

"They tell me she is not. She is in Europe. He is in Palestine." 

" In Palestine, is he ? " 

" So they tell me. A dean can go where he likes. He has no 
cure of souls to stand in the way of his pleasures." 

" He hasn't, hasn't he ? I wish I were a dean ; that is, if I were 
not a lawyer. Might I write a line to the dean, and to Mrs. Dean, if 
it seemed fit ? You wouldn't mind that ? As you have come to see 
your cousin at last, and very glad I am that you have, you must 
leave him a little discretion. I won't say anything I oughtn't to say." 
Mr. Crawley opposed this scheme for some time, but at last consented 


to the proposition. " And I'll tell you what, Mr. Crawley ; I am very 
fond of cathedrals, I am indeed ; and I have long wanted to see 
Barchester. There's a very fine what-you-may-call-em ; isn't there ? 
Well ; I'll just run down at the assizes. We have nothing to do in 
London when the judges are in the country, of course." Mr. 
Toogood looked into Mr. Crawley's eyes as he said this, to see if 
his iniquity were detected, but the perpetual curate was altogether 
innocent in these matters. " Yes ; I'll just run down for a mouthful 
of fresh air. Of course I shan't open my mouth in court. But I might 
say one word to the dean, if he's there; and one word to Mr. Soames. 
Who is conducting the prosecution ? " Mr. Crawley said that Mr. 
Walker was doing so. " Walker, Walker, Walker ? oh, yes ; Walker 
and Winthrop, isn't it ? A decent sort of man, I suppose ? " 

" I have heard nothing to his discredit, Mr. Toogood." 

" And that's saying a great deal for a lawyer. Well, Mr. Crawley, 
if nothing else comes out between this and that, nothing, that is, that 
shall clear your memory about that unfortunate bit of paper, you must 
simply tell your story to the jury as you've told it to me. I don't think 
any twelve men in England would convict you ; I don't indeed." 

" You think they would not ? " 

" Of course I've only heard one side, Mr. Crawley." 

" No, no, no, that is true." 

" But judging as well as I can judge from one side, I don't think a 
jury can convict you. At any rate I'll see you at Barchester, and I'll 
write a line or two before the trial, just to find out anything that can be 
found out. And you're sure you won't come and take a bit of mutton 
with us in the Square ? The girls would be delighted to see you, 
and so would Maria." Mr. Crawley said that he was quite sure he 
could not do that, and t'hen having tendered reiterated thanks to his 
new friend in words which were touching in spite of their old-fashioned 
gravity, he took his leave, and walked back again to the public-house at 

He returned home to Hogglestock on the same afternoon, reaching 
that place at nine in the evening. During the whole of the day after 
leaving Raymond's Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer, and of the 
words which the lawyer had spoken. Although he had been disposed 
to quarrel with Mr. Toogood on many points, although he had been 
more than once disgusted by the attorney's bad taste, shocked by his 
low morality, and almost insulted by his easy familiarity, still, when 
the interview was over, he liked the attorney. When first Mr. Toogood 
had begun to talk, he regretted very much that he had subjected him- 


self to the necessity of discussing his private affairs with such a windbag 
of a man ; but when he left the chamber he trusted Mr. Toogood 
altogether, and was very glad that he had sought his aid. He was tired 
and exhausted when he reached home, as he had eaten nothing but a 
biscuit or two since his breakfast ; but his wife got him food and tea, 
and then asked him as to his success. "Was my cousin kind to 

" Very kind, more than kind, perhaps somewhat too pressing in 
his kindness. But I find no fault. God forbid that I should. He 
is, I think, a good man, and certainly has been good to me." 

" And what is to be done ? " 

" He will write to the dean.' ; 

" I am glad of that." 

" And he will be at Barchester.' 

" Thank God for that." 

" But not as my lawyer." 

" Nevertheless, I thank God that some one will be there who will 
know how to give you assistance and advice." , 


THE letters had been brought into the breakfast-parlour at Plunistead 
Rectory one morning, and the archdeacon had inspected them all, and 
then thrown over to his wife her share of the spoil, as was the custom 
of the house. As to most of Mrs. Grantly's letters, he never made any 
further inquiry. To letters from her sister, the dean's wife, he was 
profoundly indifferent, and rarely made any inquiry as to those which 
were directed in writing with which he was not familiar. But there 
were others as to which, as Mrs. Grantly knew, he would be sure to ask 
her questions if she did not show them. No note ever reached her 
from Lady Hartletop as to which he was not curious, and yet Lady 
Hartletop's notes very seldom contained much that was of interest. 
Now, on this morning, there came a letter which, as a matter of course, 
Mrs. Grantly read at breakfast, and which, she knew, would not be 
allowed to disappear without inquiry. Nor, indeed, did she wish to 
keep the letter from her husband. It was too important to be so 
treated. But she would have been glad to gain time to think in what 
spirit she would discuss the contents of the letter, if only such time 



might be allowed to her. But the archdeacon would allow her no time. 
" What does Henry say, my dear ? " he asked, before the breakfast 
things had been taken away. 

" What does he say ? Well ; he says . I'll give you his letter 

to read by-and-by." 

" And why not now ? " 

" I thought I'd read it again myself, first." 

" But if you have read it, I suppose you know what's in it ? " 

" Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is." She knew very 
well that when she had once been asked for it, no peace would be 
allowed to her till he had seen it. And, alas ! there was not much 
probability of peace in the house for some time after he should see it. 

The archdeacon read the three or four first lines in silence, and 
then he burst out. " He has, has he ? Then, by heavens 

" Stop, dearest; stop," said his wife, rising from her chair and 
coming over to him ; " do not say words which you will surely repent." 

" I will say words which shall make him repent. He shall never 
have from me a son's portion." 

" Do not make threats in anger. Do not ! You know that it is 
wrong. If he has offended you, say nothing about it, even to yourself, 
as to threatened punishments, till you can judge of the offence in 
cool blood." 

" I am cool," said the archdeacon. 

" No, my dear; no ; you are angry. And you have not even read 
his letter through." 

" I will read his letter." 

" You will see that the marriage is not imminent. It may be that 
even yet it will never take place. The young lady has refused him." 


" You will see that she has done so. He tells us so himself. And 
she has behaved very properly." 

" Why has she refused him ? " 

" There can be no doubt about the reason. She feels that, with 
this charge hanging over her father, she is not in a position to become 
the wife of any gentleman. You cannot but respect her for that." 

Then the archdeacon finished his son's letter, uttering sundry 
interjections and ejaculations as he did so. 

" Of course ; I knew it. I understood it all," he said at last. " I've 
nothing to do with the girl. I don't care whether she be good or bad." 

" Oh, my dear ! " 

" I care not at all, with reference to my own concerns. Of course 


I would wish that the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, that the 
daughter of any neighbour, that the daughter of any one whatsoever, 
should be good rather than bad. But as regards Henry and me, and 
our mutual relation, her goodness can make no difference. Let her be 
another Grizel, and still such a marriage must estrange him from me, 
and me from him." 

" But she has refused him." 

" Yes ; and what does he say ? that he has told her that he will 
not accept her refusal. Of course we know what it all means. The 
girl I am not judging. The girl I will not judge. But my own son, 
to whom I have ever done a father's duty with a father's affectionate 
indulgence, him I will judge. I have warned him, and he declares 
himself to be careless of my warning. I shall take no notice of this 
letter. I shall neither write to him about it, or speak to him about it. 
But I charge you to write to him, and tell him that if he does this 
thing he shall not have a child's portion from me. It is not that I 
will shorten that which would have been his ; but he shall have 
nothing ! " Then, having spoken these words with a solemnity which 
for the moment silenced his wife, he got up and left the room. He 
left the room and closed the door, but, before he had gone half the 
length of the hall towards his own study, he returned and addressed 
his wife again. " You understand my instructions, I hope ? " 

"What instructions?" 

" That you write to Henry and tell him what I say." 

" I will speak again to you about it by-and-by." 

" I will speak no more about it, not a word more. Let there be 
not a word more said, but oblige me by doing as I ask you." 

Then he was again about to leave the room, but ^he stopped him. 
" Wait a moment, my dear." 

" Why should I wait ? " 

" That you may listen to me. Surely you will do that, when I 
ask you. I will write to Henry, of course, if you bid me ; and I will 
give him your message, whatever it may be ; but not to-day, my dear." 

" Why not to-day ? " 

"Because the sun shall go down upon your wrath before I become 
its messenger. If you choose to write to-day yourself, I cannot help it. 
I cannot hinder you. If I am to write to him on your behalf I will take 
my instructions from you to-morrow morning. When to-morrow 
morning comes you will not be angry with me because of the delay." 

The archdeacon was by no means satisfied; but he knew his 
wife too well, and himself too well, and the world too well, to 


insist on the immediate gratification of his passion. Over his bosom's 
mistress he did exercise a certain marital control, which was, for 
instance, quite sufficiently fixed to enable him to look down with 
thorough contempt on such a one as Bishop Proudie ; but he was 
not a despot who could exact a passive obedience to every fantasy. 
His wife would not have written the letter for him on that day, and 
he knew very well that she would not do so. He knew also that she 
was right ; and yet he regretted his want of power. His anger at the 
present moment was very hot, so hot that he wished to wreak it. He 
knew that it would cool before the morrow ; and, no doubt, knew also 
theoretically, that it would be most fitting that it should cool. But not 
the less was it a matter of regret to him that so much good hot anger 
should be wasted, and that he could not have his will of his disobedient 
son while it lasted. He might, no doubt, have written himself, but to 
have done so would not have suited him. Even in his anger he could 
not have written to his son without using the ordinary terms of affec- 
tion, and in his anger he could not bring himself to use those terms. 
" You will find that I shall be of the same mind to-morrow, exactly," 
he said to his wife. "I have resolved about it long since; and it 
is not likely that I shall change in a day." Then he went out, about 
his parish, intending to continue to think of his son's iniquity, so ihat 
he might keep his anger hot, red hot. Then he remembered that the 
evening would come, and that he would say his prayers ; and he shook 
his head in regret, in a regret of which he was only half conscious, 
though it was very keen, and which he did not attempt to analyze, as 
he reflected that his rage would hardly be able to survive that ordeal. 
How common with us it is to repine that the devil is not stronger over 
us than he is. m 

The archdeacon, who was a very wealthy man, had purchased a 
property in Plumstead, contiguous to the glebe-land, and had thus 
come to exercise in the parish the double duty of rector and squire. 
And of this estate in Barsetshire, which extended beyond the confines 
of Plumstead into the neighbouring parish of Eiderdown, and which 
comprised also an outlying farm in the parish of Stogpingum, Stoke 
Pinguium would have been the proper name had not barbarous Saxon 
tongues clipped it of its proper proportions, he had always intended 
that his son Charles should enjoy the inheritance. There was other 
property, both in land and in money, for his elder son, and other again 
for the maintenance of his wife, for the archdeacon's father had been 
for many years Bishop of Barchester, and such a bishopric as that of 
Barchester had been in those days was worth money. Of his intention 



in this respect he had never spoken in plain language to either of his 
sons ; but the major had for the last year or two enjoyed the shooting 
of the Barsetshire covers, giving what orders he pleased about the game ; 
and the father had encouraged him to take something like the manage- 
ment of the property into his hands. There might be some fifteen 
hundred acres of it altogether, and the archdeacon had rejoiced over it 
with his wife scores of times, saying that there was many a squire in 
the county whose elder son would never find himself half so well placed 
as would his own younger son. Now there was a string of narrow woods 
called Plumstead Coppices which ran from a point near the church right 
across the parish, dividing the archdeacon's land from the Ullathorne 
estate, and these coppices, or belts of woodland, belonged to the arch- 
deacon. On the morning of which we are speaking, the archdeacon, 
mounted on his cob, still thinking of his son's iniquity and of his own 
fixed resolve to punish him as he had said that he would punish him, 
opened with his whip a woodland gate, from which a green muddy 
lane led through the trees up to the house of his gamekeeper. The 
man's wife was ill, and in his ordinary way of business the archdeacon 
was about to call and ask after her health. At the door of the cottage 
he found the man, who was woodman as well as gamekeeper, and was 
responsible for fences and faggots, as well as for foxes and pheasants' 

" How's Martha, Flurry ? " said the archdeacon. 

" Thanking your reverence, she be a deal improved since the 
mistress was here, last Tuesday it was, I think." 

" I'm glad of that. It was only rheumatism, I suppose ? " 

" Just a tich of fever with it, your reverence, the doctor said." 

" Tell her I was asking after it. I won't mind getting down to-day, 
as I am rather busy. She has had what she wanted from the house ? " 

" The mistress has been very good in that way. She always is, 
God bless her 1" :: 

" Good-day to you, Flurry. I'll ask Mr. Sims to come and read to 
her a bit this afternoon, or to -morrow morning." The archdeacon kept 
two curates, and Mr. Sims was one of them. 

" She'll take it very kindly, your reverence. But while you are 
here, sir, there's just a word I'd like to say. I didn't happen to catch 
Mr. Henry when he was here the other day." 

" Never mind Mr. Henry ; what is it you have to say ? " 

" I do think, I do indeed, sir, that Mr. Thome's man ain't dealing 
fairly along of the foxes. I wouldn't say a word about it, only that 
Mr. Henry is so particular." 


" What about the foxes ? What is he doing with the foxes ? " 

" Well, sir, he's a trapping on 'em. He is, indeed, your reverence. 
I wouldn't speak if I warn't well nigh mortial sure." 

Now the archdeacon had never been a hunting man, though in his 
early days many a clergyman had been in the habit of hunting without 
losing his clerical character by doing so ; but he had lived all his life 
among gentlemen in a hunting county, and had his own very strong 
ideas about the trapping of foxes. Foxes first, and pheasants after- 
wards, had always been the rule with him as to any land of which he 
himself had had the management. And no man understood better than 
he did how to deal with keepers as to this matter of fox-preserving, or 
knew better that keepers will in truth obey not the words of their 
employers, but their sympathies. " Wish them to have foxes, and pay 
them, and they will have them," Mr. Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to 
say, and he in his day was reckoned to be the best preserver of foxes in 
Barsetshire. " Tell them to have them, and don't wish it, and pay 
them well, and you won't have a fox to interfere with your game. I 
don't care what a man says to me, I can read it all like a book when I 
see his covers drawn." That was what poor Mr. Sowerby of Chaldi- 
cotes used to say, and the archdeacon had heard him say it a score of 
times, and had learned the lesson. But now his heart was not with the 
foxes, and especially not with the foxes on behalf of his son Henry. 
" I can't have any meddling with Mr. Thome," he said ; " I can't, and 
I won't." 

" But I don't suppose it can be Mr. Thome's order, your reverence ; 
and Mr. Henry is so particular." 

" Of course it isn't Mr. Thome's order. Mr. Thorne has been a 
hunting man all his life." 

" But he have guv' up now, your reverence. He ain't a hunted 
these two years." 

" I'm sure he wouldn't have the foxes trapped." 

" Not if he knowed it, he wouldn't, your reverence. A gentleman 
of the likes of him, who's been a hunting over fifty year, wouldn't do 
the likes of that ; but the foxes is trapped, and Mr. Henry '11 be a 
putting it on me if I don't speak out. They is Plumstead foxes, too ; 
and a vixen was trapped just across the field yonder, in Goshall Springs, 
no later than yesterday morning." Flurry was now thoroughly in 
earnest ; and, indeed, the trapping of a vixen in February is a serious 

" Goshall Springs don't belong to me," said the archdeacon. 

" No, your reverence ; they're on the Ullathorne property, But a 


word from your reverence would do it. Mr. Henry thinks more of the 
foxes than anything. The last word he told me was that it would 
break his heart if he saw the coppices drawn blank." 

" Then he must break his heart." The words were pronounced, 
but the archdeacon had so much command over himself as to speak 
them in such a voice that the man should not hear them. But it was 
incumbent on him to say something that the man should hear. " I 
will have no meddling in the matter, Flurry. "Whether there are foxes 
or whether there are not, is matter of no great moment. I will not 
have a word said to annoy Mr. Thorne." Then he rode away, back 
through the wood and out on to the road, and the horse walked with 
him leisurely on, whither the archdeacon hardly knew, for he was 
thinking, thinking, thinking. " Well ; if that ain't the darn'dest thing 
that ever was," said Flurry ; " but I'll tell the squire about Thome's 
man, darned if I don't." Now " the squire " was young Squire 
Gresham, the master of the East Barsetshire hounds. 

But the archdeacon went on thinking, thinking, thinking. He 
could have heard nothing of his son to stir him more in his favour than 
this strong evidence of his partiality for foxes. I do not mean it to be 
understood that the archdeacon regarded foxes as better than active 
charity, or a contented mind, or a meek spirit, or than self-denying 
temperance. No doubt all these virtues did hold in his mind their 
proper places, altogether beyond contamination of foxes. But he had 
prided himself on thinking that his son should be a country gentleman, 
and, probably nothing doubting as to the major's active charity and 
other virtues, was delighted to receive evidence of those tastes which 
he had ever wished to encourage in his son's character. Or rather, 
such evidence would have delighted him at any other time than the 
present. Now it only added more gall to his cup. " Why should he 
teach himself to care for such things, when he has not the spirit to 
enjoy them," said the archdeacon to himself. " He is a fool, a fool. 
A man that has been married once, to go crazy after a little girl, that 
has hardly a dress to her back, and who never was in a drawing-room 
in her life ! Charles is the eldest, and he shall be the eldest. It will 
be better to keep it together. It is the way in which the country has 
become what it is." He was out nearly all day, and did not see his 
wife till dinner-time. Her father, Mr. Harding, was still with them, 
but had breakfasted in his own room. Not a word, therefore, was said 
about Henry Grantly between the father and mother on that evening. 

Mrs. Grantly was determined that, unless provoked, she would say 
nothing to him till the following morning. He should sleep upon his 


wrath before she spoke to him again. And he was equally unwilling to 
recur to the subject. Had she permitted it, the next morning would 
have passed away, and no word would have been spoken. But this 
would not have suited her. She had his orders to write, and she had 
undertaken to obey these orders, with the delay of one day. Were she 
not to write at all, or in writing to send no message from the father, 
there would be cause for further anger. And yet this, I think, was 
what the archdeacon wished. 

" Archdeacon," she said, "I shall write to Henry to-day." 

" Very well." 

" And what am I to say from you ? " 

" I told you yesterday what are my intentions." 

" I am not asking about that now. We hope there will be years 
and years to come, in which you may change them, and shape them as 
you will. What shall I tell him now from you ? " 

" I have nothing to say to him, nothing ; not a word. He knows 
what he has to expect from me, for I have told him. He is acting 
with his eyes open, and so am I. If he mames Miss Crawley, he must 
live on his own means. I told him that myself so plainly, that he can 
want no further intimation." Then Mrs. Grantly knew that she was 
absolved from the burden of yesterday's message, and she plumed her- 
self on the prudence of her conduct. On the same morning the 
archdeacon wrote the following note : 


"My man tells me that foxes have been trapped on Darvell's 
farm, just outside the -coppices. I know nothing of it myself, but I am 
sure you'll look to it. 

" Yours always, 




HEEE was great dismay in 
Barchester Palace after the 
visit paid to the bishop and 
Mrs. Proudie by that terrible 
clerical offender, Mr. Crawley. 
It will be remembered, perhaps, 
how he had defied the bishop 
with spoken words, and how 
he had defied the bishop's wife 
by speaking no words to her. 
For the moment, no doubt, 
Mr. Crawley had the best of 
it. Mrs. Proudie acknowledged 
to herself that this was the 
case ; but as she was a woman 
who had never yet succumbed 
to an enemy, who had never, 
if on such an occasion I may 
be allowed to use a schoolboy's slang, taken a licking from any 
one, it was not likely that Mr. Crawley would be long allowed to 
enjoy his triumph in peace. It would be odd if all the weight of tho 
palace would not be able to silence a wretch of a perpetual curate who 
had already been committed to take his trial for thieving; and 
Mrs. Proudie was determined that all the weight of the palace should 
be used. As for the bishop, though he was not as angry as his wife, 
he was quite as unhappy, and therefore quite as hostile to Mr. Crawley ; 
and was fully conscious that there could be no peace for him now 
until Mr. Crawley should be crushed. If only the assizes would come 
at once, and get him condemned out of the way, what a blessed thing 
it would be ! But unluckily it still wanted three months to the assizes, 
and during those three months Mr. Crawley would be at large and 
subject only to episcopal authority. During that time he could not 
be silenced by the arm of the civil law. His wife was not long in 
expressing her opinion after Mr. Crawley had left the palace. " You 
xm. c o 


must proceed against him in the Court of Arches, and that at once," 
said Mrs. Proudie. " You can do that, of course ? I know that it 
will be expensive. Of course it will be expensive. I suppose it may 
cost us some hundreds of pounds ; but duty is duty, my lord, and in 
such a case as this your duty as a bishop is paramount." 

The poor bishop knew that it was useless to explain to her the 
various mistakes which she made, which she was ever making, as 
to the extent of his powers and the modes of procedure which were 
open to him. When he would do so she would only rail at him for 
being lukewarm in his office, poor in spirit, and afraid of dealing 
roundly with those below him. On the present occasion he did say 
a word, but she would not even hear him to the end. " Don't tell 
me about rural deans, as if I didn't know. The rural dean has nothing 
to do with such a case. The man has been committed for trial. 
Send for Mr. Chadwick at once, and let steps be taken before you are 
an hour older." 

" But, my dear, Mr. Chadwick can do nothing." 

" Then I will see Mr. Chadwick." And in her anger she did sit 
down and write a note to Mr. Chadwick, begging him to come over 
to her at the palace. 

Mr. Chadwick was a lawyer, living in Barchester, who earned his 
bread from ecclesiastical business. His father, and his uncle, and his 
grandfather and granduncles, had all been concerned in the affairs of 
the diocese of Barchester. His uncle had been bailiff to the episcopal 
estates, or steward as he had been called, in Bishop Grantly's time, 
and still contrived to draw his income in some shape from the property 
of the see. The nephew had also been the legal assistant of the 
bishop in his latter days, and had been continued in that position by 
Bishop Proudie, not from love, but from expediency. Mr. John 
Chadwick was one of those gentlemen, two or three of whom are to 
be seen in connection with every see, who seem to be hybrids half- 
lay, half-cleric. They dress like clergymen, and affect that mixture 
of clerical solemnity and clerical waggishness which is generally to be 
found among minor canons and vicar chorals of a cathedral. They 
live, or at least have their offices, half in the Close and half out of 
it, dwelling as it were just on the borders of holy orders. They 
always wear white neck-handkerchiefs and black gloves ; and would be 
altogether clerical in their appearance, were it not that as regards the 
outward man they impinge somewhat on the characteristics of the 
undertaker. They savour of the church, but the savour is of the 
church's exterior. Any stranger thrown into chance contact with one 


of them would, from instinct, begin to talk of things ecclesiastical 
without any reference to things theological or things religious. They 
are always most worthy men, much respected in the society of the 
Close, and I never heard of one of them whose wife was not comfortable 
or whose children were left without provision. 

Such a one was Mr. John Chadwick, and as it was a portion of his 
duties to accompany the bishop to consecrations and ordinations, he 
knew Dr. Proudie very well. Having been brought up, as it were, 
under the very wing of Bishop Grantly, it could not well be that he 
should love Bishop Grantly's successor. The old bishop and the 
new bishop had been so different that no man could like, or even 
esteem, them both. But Mr. Chadwick was a prudent man, who 
knew well the source from which he earned his bread, and he had 
never quarrelled with Bishop Proudie. He knew Mrs. Proudie also, 
of necessity, and when I say of him that he had hitherto avoided 
any open quarrel with her, it will I think be allowed that he was 
a man of prudence and sagacity. 

But he had sometimes been sorely tried, and he felt when he got 
her note that he was now about to encounter a very sore trial. He 
muttered something which might have been taken for an oath, were 
it not that the outward signs of the man gave warranty that no oath 
could proceed from such a one. Then he wrote a short note presenting 
his compliments to Mrs. Proudie, and saying that he would call at the 
palace at eleven o'clock on the following morning. 

But, in the meantime, Mrs. Proudie, who could not be silent on 
the subject for a moment, did learn something of the truth from her 
husband. The information did not come to her in the way of 
instruction, but was teased out of the unfortunate man. "I know 
that you can proceed against him in the Court of Arches, under the 
' Church Discipline Act,' " she said. 

"No, my dear; no;" said the bishop, shaking his head in his 

" Or in the Consistorial Court. It's all the same thing." 

" There must be an inquiry first, by his brother clergy. There 
must indeed. It's the only way of proceeding." 

" But there has been an inquiry, and he has been committed." 

" That doesn't signify, my dear. That's the Civil Law." 

" And if the Civil Law condemns him, and locks him up in prison ; 
as it most certainly will do ? " 

" But it hasn't done so yet, my dear. I really think that as it has 
gone so far, it will be best to leave it as it is till he has taken his trial." 



" What; leave him there after what occurred this morning in this 
palace ? " The palace with Mrs. Proudie was always a palace, and 
never a house. " No ; no; ten thousand times,, no. Are you not 
aware that he insulted you, and grossly, most grossly insulted me ? I 
was never treated with such insolence by any clergyman before, since I 
first came to this palace ; never, never. And we know the man to be 
a thief; we absolutely know it. Think, my lord, of the souls of his 
people ! " 

" Oh, dear; oh, dear; oh, dear," said the bishop. 

" Why do you fret yourself in that way ? " 

" Because you will get me into trouble. I tell you the only 
thing to be done is to issue a commission with the rural dean at the 
head of it." 

" Then issue a commission." 

" And they will take three months." 

" Why should they take three months ? Why should they take 
more than three days, or three hours. It is all plain sailing." 

" These things are never plain sailing, my dear. When a bishop 
has to oppose any of his clergy, it is always made as difficult as 

" More shame for them who make it so." 

"But it is so. If I were to take legal proceedings against him, it 
would cost, oh, dear, more than a thousand pounds, I should say." 

"If it costs two, you must do it." Mrs. Proudie's anger was still 
very hot, or she would not have spoken of an unremunerative outlay of 
money in such language as that. 

In this manner she did come to understand, before the arrival of 
Mr. Chadwick, that her husband could take no legal steps towards 
silencing Mr. Crawley until a commission of clergymen had been 
appointed to inquire into the matter, and that that commission should 
be headed by the rural dean within the limits of whose rural deanery 
the parish of Hogglestock was situated, or by some beneficed parochial 
clergyman of repute in the neighbourhood. Now the rural dean was 
Dr. Tempest of SilveiJbridge, who had held that position before the 
coming of Dr. Proudie to the diocese ; and there had grown up in the 
bosom of Mrs. Proudie a strong feeling that undue mercy had been shown 
to Mr. Crawley by the magistrates of Silverbridge, of whom Dr. Tempest 
had been one. " These magistrates had taken bail for his appearance 
at the assizes, instead of committing him to prison at once, as they 
were bound to do, when such an offence as that had been committed 
by a clergyman. .But, no ; even though there was a clergyman 


among them, they had thought nothing of the souls of the poor 
people ! " In such language Mrs. Proudie had spoken of the affair at 
Silverbridge, and having once committed herself to such an opinion, of 
course she thought that Dr. Tempest would go through fire and water, 
would omit no stretch of what little judicial power might be committed 
to his hands, with the view of opposing his bishop and maintaining the 
culprit in his position. " In such a case as this, can not you name 
an acting rural dean yourself? Dr. Tempest, you know, is very old." 
" No, my dear ; no ; I cannot." " You can ask Mr. Chadwick, at any 
rate, and then you could name Mr. Thumble." " But Mr. Thumble 
.doesn't even hold a living in the diocese. Oh, dear; oh, dear; oh, 
dear ! " And so the matter rested until Mr. Chadwick came. 

Mrs. Proudie had no doubt intended to have Mr. Chadwick all to 
herself, at any rate so to encounter him in the first instance. But 
having been at length convinced that the inquiry by the rural dean was 
really necessaiy as a preliminary, and having also slept upon the 
question of expenditure, she gave directions that the lawyer should be 
shown into the bishop's study, and she took care to be absent at the 
moment of his arrival. Of course she did not intend that Mr. Chad- 
wick should leave the palace without having heard what she had to say, 
but she thought that it would be well that he should be made to 
conceive that though the summons had been written by her, it had 
really been intended on the part of the bishop. "Mr. Chadwick will 
be with you at eleven, bishop," she said, as she got up from the 
breakfast-table, at which she left his lordship with two of his daughters 
and with a married son-in-law, a clergyman who was staying in the 
house. "Very well, my dear," said the bishop, with a smile, for he 
was anxious not to betray any vexation at his wife's interference before 
his daughters or the Rev. Mr. Tickler. But he understood it all. 
Mr. Chadwick had been sent for with reference to Mr. Crawley, and he 
was driven, absolutely driven, to propose to his lawyer that this 
commission of inquiry should be issued. 

Punctually at eleven Mr. Chadwick came, wearing a very long face 
as he entered the palace door, for he felt that he would in all 
probability be now compelled to quarrel with Mrs. Proudie. Much he 
could bear, but there was a limit to his endurance. She had never 
absolutely sent for him before, though she had often interfered with 
him. "I shall have to tell her a bit of my mind," he said, as he 
stepped across the Close, habited in his best suit of black, with most exact 
white cravat, and yet looking not quite like a clergyman, with some 
touch of the undertaker in his gait. When he found that he was 


shown into the bishop's room, and that the bishop was there, and the 
bishop only, his mind was relieved. It would have been better that the 
bishop should have written himself, or that the chaplain should have 
written in his lordship's name ; that, however, was a trifle. 

But the bishop did not know what to say to him. If he intended 
to direct an inquiry to be made by the rural dean, it would be by no 
means becoming that he should consult Mr. Chadwick as to doing so. 
It might be well, or if not well at any rate not improper, that he should 
make the application to Dr. Tempest through Mr. Chadwick ; but in 
that case he must give the order at once, and he still wished to avoid 
it if it were possible. Since he had been in the diocese no case so 
grave as this had been pushed upon him. The intervention of the 
rural dean in an ordinary way he had used, had been made to use, 
more than once, by his wife. A vicar had been absent a little too long 
from one parish, and there had been rumours about brandy- and- water 
in another. Once he had been very nearly in deep water because 
Mrs. Proudie had taken it in dudgeon that a certain young rector, who 
had been left a widower, had a very pretty governess for his children ; 
and there had been that case, sadly notorious in the diocese at the 
time, of our excellent friend Mr. Kobarts of Framley, when the 
bailiffs were in his house because he couldn't pay his debts, or rather, 
the debts of his friend for whom he had signed bills. But in all these 
cases some good fortune had intervened, and he had been saved from 
the terrible necessity of any ulterior process. But now,' now he was 
being driven beyond himself, and all to no purpose. If Mrs. Proudie 
would only wait throe months the civil law would do it all for him. 
But here was Mr. Chadwick in the room, and he knew that it would be 
useless for him to attempt to talk to Mr. Chadwick about other matters, 
and so dismiss him. The wife of his bosom would be down upon them 
before Chadwick could be out of the room. 

11 H m ha. How d'ye do, Mr. Chadwick won't you sit down ? " 
Mr. Chadwick thanked his lordship, and sat down. "It's very cold, 
isn't it, Mr. Chadwick? " 

" A hard frost, my lord, but a beautiful day." 

" Won't you come near the fire?" The bishop knew that Mrs. 
Proudie was on the road, and had an eye to the proper strategical 
position of his forces. Mrs. Proudie would certainly take up her 
position in a certain chair from whence the light enabled her to rake 
her husband thoroughly. What advantage she might have from this 
he could not prevent ; but he could so place Mi*. Chadwick, that the 
lawyer should be more within the reach of his eye than that of his wife. 


So the bishop pointed to an arm-chair opposite to himself and near the 
fire, and Mr. Chadwick seated himself accordingly. 

" This is a very sad affair about Mr. Crawley," said the bishop. 

"Very sad indeed," said the lawyer. " I never pitied a man so 
much in my life, my lord." 

This was not exactly the line which the bishop was desirous of taking. 
" Of course he is to be pitied ; of course he is. But from all I hear, 
Mr. Chadwick, I am afraid, I am afraid We must not acquit him." 

"As to that, my lord, he has to stand his trial, of course." 

" But, you see, Mr. Chadwick, regarding him as a beneficed clergy- 
man, with a cure of souls, the question is whether I should be 
justified in leaving him where he is till his trial shall come on." 

" Of course your lordship knows best about that, but " 

" I know there is a difficulty. I know that. But I am inclined to 
think that in the interests of the parish I am bound to issue a 
commission of inquiry." 

" I believe your lordship has attempted to silence him, and that he 
has refused to comply." 

" I thought it better for everybody's sake, especially for his own, 
that he should for a while be relieved from his duties ; but he is an 
obstinate man, a very obstinate man. I made the attempt with all 
consideration for his feelings." 

" He is hard put to it, my lord. I know the man and his pride. 
The dean has spoken of him to me more than once, and nobody knows 
him so well as the dean. If I might venture to offer an opinion " 

" Good morning, Mr. Chadwick," said Mrs. Proudie, coming into 
the room and taking her accustomed seat. "No thank yon, no; I 
will stay away from the fire, if you please. His lordship has spoken to 
you no doubt about this unfortunate, wretched man ? " 

" We are speaking of him now, my dear." 

" Something must of course be done to put a stop to the crying 
disgrace of having such a man preaching from a pulpit in this diocese. 
When I think of the souls of the people in that poor village, my hair 
literally stands on end. And then he is disobedient ! " 

" That is the worst of it," said the bishop. " It would have been 
so much better for himself if he would have allowed me to provide 
quietly for the services till the trial be over." 

" I could have told you, my lord, that he would not do that, from 
what I knew of him," said Mr. Chadwick. 

"But he must do it," said Mrs. Proudie. "He must be made 
to do it." 


" His lordship will find it difficult," said Mr. Chadwick. 

" I can issue a commission, you know, to the rural dean," said the 
bishop mildly. 

"Yes, you can do that. And Dr. Tempest in two months' time 
will have named his assessors " 

" Dr. Tempest must not name them ; the bishop must name 
them," said Mrs. Proudie. 

" It is customary to leave that to the rural dean," said Mr. Chad- 
wick. " The bishop no doubt can object to any one named." 

" And can specially select any clergyman he pleases from the arch- 
deaconry," said the bishop, " I have known it done." 

" The rural dean in such case has probably been an old man, and 
not active," said the lawyer. 

"And Dr. Tempest is a very old man," said Mrs. Proudie, " and 
in such a matter not at all trustworthy. He was one of the magistrates 
who took bail." 

" His lordship could hardly set him aside," said the lawyer. " At 
any rate I would not recommend him to try. I think you might suggest 
a commission of five, and propose two of the number yourself. I do 
not think that in such a case Dr. Tempest would raise any question." 

At last it was settled in this way. Mr. Chadwick was to prepare a 
letter to Dr. Tempest, for the bishop's signature, in which the doctor 
should be requested, as the rural dean to whom Mr. Crawley was 
subject, to hold a commission of five to inquire into Mr. Crawley 's 
conduct. The letter was to explain to Dr. Tempest that the bishop, 
moved by his solicitude for the souls of the people of Hogglestock, had 
endeavoured, "in a friendly way," to induce Mr. Crawley to desist 
from his ministrations ; but that having failed through Mr. Crawley's 
obstinacy, he had no alternative but to proceed in this way. "You 
had better say that his lordship, as bishop of the diocese, can take no 
heed of the coming trial," said Mrs. Proudie. " I think his lordship 
had better say nothing at all about the trial," said Mr. Chadwick. " I 
think that will be best," said the bishop. 

"But if they report against him," said Mr. Chadwick, "you can 
only then proceed in the ecclesiastical court, at your own expense." 

" He'll hardly be so obstinate as that," said the bishop. 

" I'm afraid you don't know him, my lord," said the lawyer. The 
bishop, thinking of the scene which had taken place in that very room 
only yesterday, felt that he did know Mr. Crawley, and felt also that 
the hope which he had just expressed was one in which he himself put 
no trust. But something might turn up ; and it was devoutly to be 


hoped that Dr. Tempest would take a long time over his inquiry. The 
assizes might come on as soon as it was terminated, or very shortly 
afterwards ; and then everything might be well. " You won't find 
Dr. Tempest very ready at it," said Mr. Chadwick. The bishop in his 
heart was comforted by the words. " But he must be made to be 
ready to do his duty," said Mrs. Proudie, imperiously. Mr. Chadwick 
shrugged his shoulders,- then got up, spoke his farewell little speeches, 
and left the palace. 


JOHN EAMES saw nothing more of Lily Dale till he packed up his port- 
manteau, left his mother's house, and went to stay for a few days with 
his old friend Lady Julia ; and this did not happen till he had been 
above a week at Guestwick. Mrs. Dale repeatedly said that it was odd 
that Johnny did not come to see them ; and Grace, speaking of him 
to Lily, asked why he did not come. Lily, in her funny way, declared 
that he would come soon enough. But even while she was joking 
there was something of half- expressed consciousness in her words, 
as though she felt it to be foolish to speak of his coming as she 
might of that of any other young man, before people who knew her 
whole story. " He'll come quick enough. He knows, and I know, 
that his coming will do no good. Of course I shall be glad to see 
him. Why shouldn't I be glad to see him ? I've known him and 
liked him all my life. I liked him when there did not seem to be much 
about him to like, and now that he is clever, and agreeable, and good- 
looking, which he never was as a lad, why shouldn't I go on liking 
him ? He's more like a brother to me than anybody else I've got. 
James," James was her brother-in-Jaw, Dr. Crofts, "thinks of 
nothing but his patients and his babies, and my cousin Bernard is 
much too grand a person for me to take the liberty of loving him. I 
shall be very glad to see Johnny Eames." From all which Mrs. Dale 
was led to believe that Johnny's case was still hopeless. And how 
should it not be hopeless ? Had Lily not confessed within the last 
week or two that she still loved Adolphus Crosbie ? 

Mrs. Eames also, and Mary, were surprised that John did not go 
over to Allington. " You haven't seen Mrs. Dale yet, or the squire ? " 
said his mother. 


" I sliall see them when I am at the cottage." 

" Yes ; no doubt. But it seems strange that you should he here 
HO long without going to them." 

" There's time enough," said he. " I shall have nothing else to 
do when I'm at the cottage." Then, when Mary had spoken to him 
again in private, expressing a hope that there was " nothing wrong," he 
had been very angry with his sister. " What do you mean by wrong ? 
What rubbish you girls talk ! and you never have any delicacy of 
feeling to make you silent." 

" Oh, John, don't say such hard things as that of me ! " 

" But I do say them. You'll make me swear among you some day 
that I will never see Lily Dale again. As it is, I wish I never had 
seen her, simply because I am so dunned about it." In all of which 
I think that Johnny was manifestly wrong. When the humour was 
on him he was fond enough of talking about Lily Dale. Had he not 
taught her to do so, I doubt whether his sister would ever have men- 
tioned Lily's name to him. " I did not mean to dun you, John," said 
Mary, meekly. 

But at last he went to Lady Julia's, and was no sooner there than 
he was ready to start for Allington. When Lady Julia spoke to him 
about Lily, he did not venture to snub her. Indeed, of all his friends, 
Lady Julia was the one with whom on this subject he allowed himself 
the most unrestricted confidence. He came over one day, just before 
dinner, and declared his intention of walking over to Allington imme- 
diately after breakfast on the following morning. "It's the last time, 
Lady Julia," he said. 

" So you say, Johnny." 

" And so I mean it ! What's the good of a man frittering away 
his life ? What's the good of wishing for what you can't get ? " 

" Jacob was not in such a hurry when he wished for Rachel." 

" That was all very well for an old patriarch who had seven or 
eight hundred years to live." 

" My dear John, you forget your Bible. Jacob did not live half 
as long as that." 

" He lived long enough, and slowly enough, to be able to wait 
fourteen years ; and then he had something to comfort him in the 
meantime. And after all, Lady Julia, it's more than seven years since 
I first thought Lily was the prettiest girl I ever saw." 

" How old are you now ? " 

" Twenty-seven, and she's twenty-four." 

" You've time enough yet, if you'll only be patient." 


" I'll be patient for to-morrow, Lady Julia, but never again. Not 
that I mean to quarrel with her. I'm not such a fool as to quarrel 
with a girl because she can't like me. I know how it all is. If that 
scoundrel had not come across my path just when he did, in that 
very nick of time, all might have been right betwixt her and me. I 
couldn't have offered to many her before, when I hadn't as much 
income as would have found her in bread-and-butter. And then, just 
as better times came to me, he stepped in ! I wonder whether it will 
be expected of me that I should forgive him ? " 

" As far as that goes, you have no right to be angry with him." 

" But I am, all the same." 

" And so was I, but not for stepping in, as you call it." 

" You and I are different, Lady Julia. I was angry with him for 
stepping in ; but I couldn't show it. Then he stepped out, and I did 
manage to show it. And now I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't step in 
again. After all, why should he have such a power ? It was simply 
the nick of time which gave it to him." That John Eames should be 
able to find some consolation in this consideration is devoutly to be 
hoped by us all. 

There was nothing said about Lily Dale the next morning at 
breakfast. Lady Julia observed that John was dressed a little more 
neatly than usual ; though the change was not such as to have called 
for her special observation, had she not known the business on which 
he was intent. 

" You have nothing to send to the Dales ? " he said, as he got up 
from the table. 

" Nothing but my love, Johnny." 

"No worsted or embroidery work, or a pot of special jam for the 
squire ?" 

" No, sir, nothing ; though I should like to make you carry a pair 
of panniers, if I could." 

" They would become me well," said Johnny, "for I am going on 
an ass's errand." Then, without waiting for the word of affection 
which was on the old woman's lips, he got himself out of the room, and 
started on his journey. 

The walk was only three miles and the weather was dry and frosty, 
and he had come to the turn leading up to the church and the squire's 
house almost before he remembered that he was near Allington. Here 
he paused for a moment to think. If he continued his way down by 
the " Bed Lion " and through Allington Street, he must knock at 
Mrs. Dale's door, and ask for admission by means of the servant, as 


would be done by any ordinary visitor. But he could make his way 
on to the lawn by going up beyond the wall of the churchyard and 
through the squire's garden. He knew the path well, very well ; and 
he thought that he might take so much liberty as that, both with the 
squire and with Mrs. Dale, although his visits to Allington were not so 
frequent now as they used to be in the days of his boyhood. He did not 
wish to be admitted by the servant, and therefore he went through the 
gardens. Luckily he did not see the squire, who would have detained 
him, and he escaped from Hopkins, the old gardener, with little more 
than a word. " I'm going down to see the ladies, Hopkins ; I suppose 
I shall find them ? " And then, while Hopkins was arranging his spade 
so that he might lean upon it for a little chat, Johnny was gone and 
had made his way into the other garden. He had thought it possible 
that he might meet Lily out among the walks by herself, and such a 
meeting as this would have suited him better than any other. And as 
he crossed the little bridge which separated the gardens he thought 
of more than one such meeting, of one especial occasion on which 
he had first ventured to tell her in plain words that he loved her. 
But before that day Crosbie had come there, and at the moment in 
which he was speaking of his love she regarded Crosbie as an angel of 
light upon the earth. What hope could there have been for him then ? 
What use was there in his telling such a tale of love at that time ? 
When he told it, he knew that Crosbie had been before him. He knew 
that Crosbie was at that moment the angel of light. But as he had 
never before been able to speak of his love, so was he then unable not 
to speak of it. He had spoken, and of course had been simply rebuked. 
Since that day Crosbie had ceased to be an angel of light, and he, John 
Eames, had spoken often. But he had spoken in vain, and now he 
would speak once again. 

He went through the garden and over the lawn belonging to the 
Small House and saw no one. He forgot, I think, that ladies do not 
come out to pick roses when the ground is frozen, and that croquet is 
not often in progress with the hoar-frost on the grass. So he walked 
up to the little terrace before the drawing-room, and looking in saw 
Mrs. Dale, and Lily, and Grace at their morning work. Lily was 
drawing, and Mrs. Dale was writing, and Grace had her needle in her 
hand. As it happened, no one at first perceived him, and he had time 
to feel that after all he would have managed better if he had been 
announced in the usual way. As, however, it was now necessary that 
he should announce himself, he knocked at the window, and they all 
immediately looked up and saw him. " It's my cousin John," said 


Grace. "Oh, Johnny, how are you at last?" said Mrs. Dale. But 
it was Lily who, without speaking, opened the window for him, who 
was the first to give him her hand, and who led him through into the 

" It's a great shame my coming in this way," said John, " and 
letting all the cold air in upon you." 

" We shall survive it," said Mrs. Dale. " I suppose you have just 
come down from my brother-in-law ? " 

" No ; I have not seen the squire as yet. I will do so before I go 
back, of course. But it seemed such a commonplace sort of thing to 
go round by the village." 

" We are very glad to see you, by whatever way you come ; arc we 
not, mamma ? " said Lily. 

" I'm not so sure of that. We were only saying yesterday that as 
you had been in the country a fortnight without coming to us, we did 
not think we would be at home when you did come." 

" But I have caught you, you see," said Johnny. 

And so they went on, chatting of old times and of mutual friends 
very comfortably for full an hour. And there was some serious conver- 
sation about Grace's father and his affairs, and John declared his 
opinion that Mr. Crawley ought to go to his uncle, Thomas Toogood, 
not at all knowing at that time that Mr. Crawley himself had come to 
the same opinion. And John gave them an elaborate description of 
Sir Raffle Buffle. standing up with his back to the fire with his hat on 
his head, and speaking with a loud harsh voice, to show them the way 
in which he declared that that gentleman received his inferiors ; and 
then bowing and scraping and rubbing his hands together and simpering 
with would-be softness, declaring that after that fashion Sir Raffle 
received his superiors. And they were very merry, so that no one 
would have thought that Johnny was a despondent lover, now bent on 
throwing the dice for his last stake ; or that Lily was aware that she 
was in the presence of one lover, and that she was like to fall to the 
ground between two stools, having two lovers, neither of whom could 
serve her turn. 

" How can you consent to serve him if he's such a man as that ? " 
said Lily, speaking of Sir Raffle. 

" I do not serve him. I serve the Queen, or rather the public. 
I don't take his wages, and he does not play his tricks with me. He 
knows that he can't. He has tried it, and has failed. And he only 
keeps me where I am because I've had some money left me. He thinks 
it fine to have a private secretary with a fortune. I know that he tells 


people all manner of lies about it, making it out to be five times as 
much as it is. Dear old Hume Snuffle. He is such an ass ; and yet 
he's had wit enough to get to the top of the tree, and to keep himself 
there. He began the world without a penny. Now he has got a handle 
to his name, and he'll live in clover all his life. It's very odd, isn't it, 
Mrs. Dale ? " 

" I suppose he does his work ? " 

" When men get so high as that, there's no knowing whether they 
work or whether they don't. There isn't much for them to do, as far 
as I can see. They have to look beautiful, and frighten the young ones." 

" And does Sir Baffle look beautiful ? " Lily asked. 

" After a fashion, he does. There is something imposing about 
such a man till you're used to it, and can see through it. Of course 
it's all padding. There are men who work, no doubt. But among the 
bigwigs, and bishops and cabinet ministers, I fancy that the looking 
beautiful is the chief part of it. Dear me, you don't mean to say it's 
luncheon time ? " 

But it was luncheon time, and not only had he not as yet said a 
word of all that which he had come to say, but had not as yet made 
any move towards getting it said. How was he to arrange that Lily 
should be left alone with him ? Lady Julia had said that she should 
not expect him back till dinner-time, and he had answered her lacka- 
daisically, " I don't suppose I shall be there above ten minutes. Ten 
minutes will say all I've got to say, and do all I've got to do. And 
then I suppose I shall go and cut names about upon bridges, eh, Lady 
Julia?" Lady Julia understood his words ; for once, upon a former 
occasion, she had found him cutting Lily's name on tho rail of a 
wooden bridge in her brother's grounds. But he had now been a 
couple of hours at the Small House, and had not said a word of that 
which he had come to say. 

" Are you going to walk out with us after lunch ? " said Lily. 

" He will have had walking enough," said Mrs. Dale. 

" We'll convoy him back part of the way," said Lily. 

" I'm not going yet," said Johnny, " unless you turn me out." 

" But we must have our walk before it is dark," said Lily. 

" You might go up with him to your uncle," said Mrs. Dale. 
" Indeed, I promised to go up myself, and so did you, Grace, to see 
the microscope. I heard Mr. Dale give orders that one of those long- 
legged reptiles should be caught on purpose for your inspection." 

Mrs. Dale's little scheme for bringing the two together was very 
transparent, but it was not the less wise on that account. Schemes 


will often be successful, let them be ever so transparent. Little intrigues 
become necessary, not to conquer unwilling people, but people who are 
willing enough, who, nevertheless, cannot give way except under the 
machinations of an intrigue. 

" I don't think I'll mind looking at the long-legged creature to-day," 
said Johnny. 

" I must go, of course," said Grace. 

Lily said nothing at the moment, either about the long-legged 
creature or the walk. That which must be, must be. She knew well 
why John Eames had come there. She knew that the visits to his 
mother and to Lady Julia would never have been made, but that he 
might have this interview. And he had a right to demand, at any rate, 
as much as that. That which must be, must be. And therefore when 
both Mrs. Dale and Grace stoutly maintained their purpose of going 
up to the squire, Lily neither attempted to persuade John to accompany 
them, nor said that she would do so herself. 

"I will convoy you home myself," she said, "and Grace, when 
she has done with the beetle, shall come and meet me. Won't you, 
Grace ? " 

" Certainly." 

"We are not helpless young ladies in these parts, nor yet timorous," 
continued Lily. " We can walk about without being afraid of ghosts, 
robbers, wild bulls, young men, or gipsies. Come the field path, Grace. 
I will go as far as the big oak with him, and then I shall turn back, 
and I shall come in by the stile opposite the church gate, and through 
the garden. So you can't miss me." 

" I daresay he'll come back with you," said Grace. 

" No, he won't. He will do nothing of the kind. He'll have to go 
on and open Lady Julia's bottle of port wine for his own drinking." 

All this was very good on Lily's 'part, and very good also on tho 
part of Mrs. Dale ; and John was of course very much obliged to them. 
But there was a lack of romance in it all, which did not seem to him 
to argue well as to his success. He did not think much about it, but 
he felt that Lily would not have been so ready to arrange their walk 
had she intended to yield to his entreaty. No doubt in these latter 
days plain good sense had become the prevailing mark of her character, 
perhaps, as Johnny thought, a little too strongly prevailing ; but 
even with all her plain good sense and determination to dispense with 
the absurdities of romance in the affairs of her life, she would not have 
proposed herself as his companion for a walk across the fields merely 
that she might have an opportunity of accepting his hand. He did not 


say all this to himself, but he instinctively felt that it was so. And he 
felt also that it should have been his duty to arrange the walk, or the 
proper opportunity for the scene that was to come. She had done it 
instead, she and her mother between them, thereby forcing upon him 
a painful conviction that he himself had not been equal to the occasion. 
" I always make a mull of it," he said to himself, when the girls went 
up to get their hats. 

They went down together through the garden, and parted where 
the paths led away, one to the great house and the other towards the 
church. " I'll certainly come and call upon the squire before I go back 
to London," said Johnny. 

" We'll tell him so," said Mrs. Dale. " He would be sure to hear 
that you had been with us, even if we said nothing about it." 

" Of course he would," said Lily ; " Hopkins has seen him." Then 
they separated, and Lily and John Eames were together. 

Hardly a word was said, perhaps not a word, till they had crossed 
the road and got into the field opposite to the church. And in this 
first field there was more than one path, and the children of the village 
were often there, and it had about it something of a public nature. 
John Eames fe"lt that it was by no means a fitting field to say that 
which he had to say. In crossing it, therefore, he merely remarked 
that the day was very fine for walking. Then he added one special 
word, " And it is so good of you, Lily, to come with me." 

" I am very glad to come with you. I would do more than that, 
John, to show how glad I am to see you." Then they had come to the 
second little gate, and beyond that the fields were really fields, and 
there were stiles instead of wicket-gates, and the business of the day 
must be begun. 

" Lily, whenever I come here you say you are glad to see me ? " 

" And so I am, very glad. Only you would take it as meaning 
what it .does not mean, I would tell you, that of all my friends living 
away from the reach of my daily life, you are the one whose coming 
is ever the most pleasant to me." 

"Oh, Lily!" 

" It was, I think, only yesterday that I was telling Grace that you 
are more like a brother to me than any one else. I wish it might be 
so. I wish we might swear to be brother and sister. I'd do more for 
you then than walk across the fields with you to Guestwick Cottage. 
Your prosperity would then be the thing in the world for which I should 
be most anxious. And if you should marry " 

" It can never be like that between us," said Johnny. 



" Can it not ? I think it can. Perhaps not this year, or next year ; 
perhaps not in the next five years. But I make myself happy with 
thinking that it may be so some day. I shall wait for it patiently, 
very patiently, even though you should rebuff me again and again, as 
you have done now." 

" I have not rebuffed you." 

" Not maliciously, or injuriously, or offensively. I will be very 
patient, and take little rebuffs without complaining. This is the worst 
stile of all. When Grace and I are here together we can never manage 
it without tearing ourselves all to pieces. It is much nicer to have you 
to help me." 

" Let me help you always," he said, keeping her hands in his after 
he had aided her to jump from the stile to the ground. 

11 Yes, as my brother." 
' " That is nonsense, Lily." 

"Is it nonsense ? Nonsense is a hard word." 

"It is nonsense as coming from you to me. Lily, I sometimes 
think that I am persecuting you, writing to you, coming after you, as I 
am doing now, telling the same whining story, asking, asking, and 
asking for that which you say you will never give me. And then I feel 
ashamed of myself, and swear that I will do it no more. 

" Do not be ashamed of yourself; but yet do it no more." 

" And then," he continued, without minding her words, " at other 
times I feel that it must be my own fault ; that if I only persevered 
with sufficient energy I must be successful. At such times I swear that 
I will never give it up." 

" Oh, John, if you could only know how little worthy of such pursuit 
it is." 

" Leave me to judge of that, dear. When a man has taken a 
month, or perhaps only a week, or perhaps not more than half an hour, 
to make up his mind, it may be very well to tell him that he doesn't 
know what he is about. I've been in the office now for over seven years, 
and the first day I went I put an oath into a book that I would come 
back and get you for my wife when I had got enough to live upon." 

"Did you, John?" 

" Yes. I can show it you. I used to come and hover about the 
place in the old days, before I went to London, when I was such a fool 
that I couldn't speak to you if I met you. I am speaking of a time long 
before, before that man came down here." 

" Do not speak of him, Johnny." 

" I must speak of him. A man isn't to hold his tongue when every- 



thing he has in the world is at stake. I suppose he loved you after a 
fashion, once." 

" Pray, pray do not speak ill of him." 

" I arn not going to abuse him. You can judge of him by his deeds. 
I cannot say anything worse of him than what they say. I suppose he 
loved you ; but he certainly did not love you as I have done. I have 
at any rate been true to you. Yes, Lily, I have been true to you. I 
am true to you. He did not know what he was about. I do. I am 
justified in saying that I do. I want you to be my wife. It is no use 
your talking about it as though I only half wanted it." 

" I did not say that." 

" Is not a man to have any reward ? Of course if you had married 
him there would have been an end of it. He had come in between 
me and my happiness, and I must have borne it, as other men bear 
such sorrows. But you have not married him ; and, of course, I 
cannot but feel that I may yet have a chance. Lily, answer me this. 
Do you believe that I love you ? " But she did not answer him. 
"You can at any rate tell me that. Do you think that I am in 

" Yes, I think you are in earnest." 

" And do you believe that I love you with all my heart and all my 
strength and all my soul ? " 

" Oh, John ! " 

"But do you?" 

" I think you love me." 

" Think ! what am I to say or to do to make you understand that 
my only idea of happiness is the idea that sooner or later I may gel; 
you to be my wife ? Lily, will you say that it shall be so ? Speak, 
Lily. There is no one that will not be glad. Your uncle will consent, 
has consented. Your mother wishes it. Bell wishes it. My mother 
wishes it. Lady Julia wishes it. You would be doing what everybody 
about you wants you to do. And why should you not do it ? It isn't 
that you dislike me. You wouldn't talk about being my sister, if you 
had not some sort of regard for me." 

" I have a regard for you." 

" Then why will you not be my wife ? Oh, Lily, say the word 
now, here, at once. Say the word, and you'll make me the happiest 
fellow in all England." As he spoke he took her by both arms, and 
held her fast. She did not struggle 'to get away from him, but stood 
quite still, looking into his face, while the first sparkle of a salt tear 
formed itself in each eye. "Lily, one little word will do it, half a 


word, a nod, a smile. Just touch my arm with your hand and I will 
take it for a yes." I think that she almost tried to touch him ; that the 
word was in her throat, and that she almost strove to speak it. But there 
was no syllable spoken, and her fingers did not loose themselves to fall 
upon his sleeve. " Lily, Lily, what can I say to you ? " 

" I wish I could," she whispered ; but the whisper was so hoarse 
that he hardly recognized the voice. 

" And why can you not ? What is there to hinder you ? There 
is nothing to hinder you, Lily." 

" Yes, John ; there is that which must hinder me." 

" And what is it ? " 

"I will tell you. You are so good and so true, and so excellent, 
such a dear, dear, dear friend, that I will tell you everything, so that 
you may read my heart. I will tell you as I tell mamma, you and 
her and no one else ; for you are the choice friend of my heart. I 
cannot be your wife because of the love I bear for another man." 

" And that man is he, he who came here ? " 

" Of course it is he. I think, Johnny, you and I are alike in 
this, that when we have loved we cannot bring ourselves to change. 
You will not change, though it would be so much better you should 
do so." 

" No ; I will never change." 

" Nor can I. When I sleep I dream of him. When I am alone I 
cannot banish him from my thoughts. I cannot define what it is to 
love him. I want nothing from him, nothing, nothing. But I move 
about through my little world thinking of him, and I shall do so to the 
end. I used to feel proud of my love, though it made me so wretched 
that I thought it would kill me. I am not proud of it any longer. It 
is a foolish poor-spirited weakness, as though my heart had been only 
half formed in the making. Do you be stronger, John. A man should 
be stronger than a woman." 

" I have none of that sort of strength." 

"Nor have I. What can we do but pity each other, and swear 
that we will be friends, dear friends. There is the oak-tree and I 
have got to turn back. We have said everything that we can say, 
unless you will tell me that you will be my brother." 

" No ; I will not tell you that." 

" Good-by, then, Johnny." 

He paused, holding her by the hand and thinking of another question 
which he longed to put to her, considering whether he would ask her 
that question or not. He hardly knew whether he were entitled to ask 


it ; whether or no the asking of it would be ungenerous. She had said 
that she would tell him everything, as she had told everything to her 
mother. " Of course," he said, " I have no right to expect to know 
anything of your future intentions?" 

" You may know them all, as far as I know them myself. I have 
said that you should read my heart." 

"If this man, whose name I cannot bear to mention, should come 
again " 

"If he were to .come again he would come in vain, John." She 
did not say that he had come again. She could tell her own secret, 
but not that of another person. 

" You would not marry him, now that he is free ? " 

She stood and thought a while before she answered him. "No, I 
should not marry him now. I think not." Then she paused again. 
"Nay, I am sure I would not. After what has passed I could not 
trust myself to do it. There is my hand on it. I will not." 

" No, Lily, I do not want that." 

" But I insist. I will not marry Mr. Crosbie. But you must not 
misunderstand me, John. There ; all that is over for me now. All 
those dreams about love, and marriage, and of a house of my own, and 
children, and a cross husband, and a wedding-ring growing always 
tighter as I grow fatter and older. I have dreamed of such things as 
other girls do, more perhaps than other girls, more than I should 
have done. And now I accept the thing as finished. You wrote some- 
thing in your book, you dear John, something that could not be made 
to come true. Dear John, I wish for your sake it was otherwise. I 
will go home and I will write in my book, this very day, Lilian Dale, 
Old Maid. If ever I make that false, do you come and ask me for the 

" Let it remain there till I am allowed to tear it out." 

"I will write it, and it shall never be torn out. You I cannot 
marry. Him I will not many. You may believe me, Johnny, when 
I say there can never be a third." 

" And is that to be the end of it ? " 

" Yes ; that is to be the end of it. Not the end of our friendship. 
Old maids have friends." 

" It shall not be the end of it. There shall be no end of it 
with me." 

"But, John '' 

" Do not suppose that I will trouble you again, at any rate not 
for a while. In five years time perhaps, ^-" 


"Now, Johnny, you are laughing at me. And of course it is the 
best way. If there is not Grace, and she has caught me before I have 
turned back. Good-by, dear, dear John. God bless you. I think you 
the finest fellow there is in the world. I do, and so does mamma. 
Remember always that there is a temple at Allington in which your 
worship is never forgotten." Then she pressed his hand and turned 
away from him to meet Grace Crawley. John did not stop to speak a 
word to his cousin, but pursued his way alone. 

"That cousin of yours," said Lily, "is simply the dearest, 
warmest-hearted, finest creature that ever was seen in the shape of 
a man." 

" Have you told him that you think him so ? " said Grace. 

" Indeed, I have," said Lily. 

"But have you told this finest, warmest, dearest creature that he 
shall be rewarded with the prize he covets ? " 

" No, Grace. I have told him nothing of the kind. I think he 
understands it all now. If he does not, it is not for the want of my 
telling him. I don't suppose any lady was ever more open-spoken to 
a gentleman than I have been to him." 

" And why have you sent him away disappointed ? You know you 
love him." 

"You see, my dear," said Lily, "you allow yourself, for the sake 
of your argument, to use a word in a double sense, and you attempt to 
confound me by doing so. But I am a great deal too clever for you, 
and have thought too much about it, to be taken in in that way. I 
certainly love your cousin John ; and so I do love Mr. Boyce, the 

" You love Johnny much better than you do Mr. Boyce." 

" True ; very much better; but it is the same sort of love. How- 
ever, it is a great deal too deep for you to understand. You're too 
young, and I shan't try to explain it. But the long and the short of it 
is, I am not going to many your cousin." 

" I wish you were," said Grace, " with all my heart." 

John Eames as he returned to the cottage was by no means able 
to fall back upon those resolutions as to his future life, which he had 
formed for himself and communicated to his friend Dalrymple, and which 
he had intended to bring at once into force in the event of his being 
again rejected by Lily Dale. "I will cleanse my mind of it altogether," 
he had said, " and though I may not forget her, I will live as though 
she were forgotten. If she declines my proposal again, I will accept 
her word as final. I will not go about the world any longer as a 


stricken deer, to be pitied or else bullied by the rest of the herd." 
On his way down to Guestwick he had sworn twenty times that it 
should be so. He would make one more effort, and then he would 
give it up. But now, after his interview with Lily, he was as little 
disposed to give it up as ever. 

He sat upon a gate in a paddock through which there was a back 
entrance into Lady Julia's garden, and there swore a thousand oaths 
that he would never give her up. He was, at any rate, sure that she 
would never become the wife of any one else. He was equally sure that 
he would never become the husband of any other wife. He could trust 
her. Yes ; he was sure of that. But could he trust himself ? Com- 
muning with himself, he told himself that after all he was but a poor 
creature. Circumstances had been very good to him, but he had done 
nothing for himself. He was vain, and foolish, and unsteady. So he 
told himself while sitting upon the gate. But he had, at any rate, 
been constant to Lily, and constant he would remain. 

He would never more mention her name to any one, unless it were 
to Lady Julia to-night. To Dalrymple he would not open his mouth 
about her, but would plainly ask his friend to be silent on that subject 
if her name should be mentioned by him. But morning and even- 
ing he would pray for her, and in his prayers he would always think 
of her as his wife. He would never speak to another girl without 
remembering that he was bound to Lily. He would go nowhere 
into society without recalling to mind the fact that he was bound by 
the chains of a solemn engagement. If he knew himself he would be 
constant to Lily. 

And then he considered in what manner it would be best and most 
becoming that he should still prosecute his endeavour and repeat his 
offer. He thought that he would write to her every year, on the same 
day of the year, year after year, it might be for the next twenty years. 
And his letters should be very simple. Sitting there on the gate he 
planned the wording of his letters ; of his first letter, and of his 
second, and of his third. They should be very like to each other, 
should hardly be more than a repetition of the same words. " If now 
you are ready for me, then, Lily, am I, as ever, still ready for you." 
And then "if now" again, and again "if now; and still if now." 
When his hair should be grey, and the wrinkles on his cheeks, ay, 
though they should be on hers, he would still continue to tell her from 
year to year that he was ready to take her. Surely some day that " if 
now" would prevail. And should it never prevail, the merit of his 
constancy should be its own reward. 


Such letters as those she would surely keep. Then he looked 
forward, down into the valley of coming years, and fancied her as she 
might sit reading them in the twilight of some long evening, letters 
which had been written all in vain. He thought that he could look 
forward with some satisfaction towards the close of his own career, in 
having been the hero of such a love-story. At any rate, if such a story 
were to be his story, the melancholy attached to it should arise from 
no fault of his own. He would still press her to be his wife. And 
then as he remembered that he was only twenty- seven and that she was 
twenty-four, he began to marvel at the feeling of grey old age which 
had come upon him, and tried to make himself believe that he would 
have her yet before the bloom was off her cheek. 

He went into the cottage and made his way at once into the room 
in which Lady Julia was sitting. She did not speak at first, but 
looked anxiously into his face. And he did not speak, but turned to a 
table near the window and took up a book, though the room was too 
dark for him to see to read the words. " John," at last said Lady 

Well, my lady ? " 

11 Have you nothing to tell me, John ? " 

" Nothing on earth, except the same old story, which has now 
become a matter of course." 

" But, John, will you not tell me what she has said ? " 

" Lady Julia, she has said no ; simply no. It is a very easy word 
to say, and she has said it so often that it seems to come from her 
quite naturally." Then he got a candle and sat down over the fire 
with a volume of a novel. It was not yet past five, and Lady Julia 
did not go upstairs to dress till six, and therefore there was an hour 
during which they were together. John had at first been rather grand 
to his old friend, and very uncommunicative. But before the dressing 
bell had rung he had been coaxed into a confidential strain and had 
told everything. "I suppose it is wrong and selfish," he said. "I 
suppose I am a dog in a manger. But I do own that there is a 
consolation to me in the assurance that she will never be the wife of 
that scoundrel." 

" I could never forgive her if she were to marry him now," said 
Lady Julia. 

" I could never forgive him. But she has said that she will not, 
and I know that she will not forswear herself. I shall go on with it, 
Lady Julia. I have made up my mind to that. I suppose it will 
never come to anything, but I shall stick to it. I can live an old 


bachelor as well as another man. At any rate I shall stick to it." 
Then the good silly old woman comforted him and applauded him as 
though he were a hero among men, and did reward him, as Lily had 
predicted, by one of those now rare bottles of superexcellent port which 
had come to her from her brother's cellar. 

John Eames stayed out his time at the cottage, and went over 
more than once again to Allington, and called on the squire, on one 
occasion dining with him and meeting the three ladies from the Small 
House ; and he walked with the girls, comporting himself like any 
ordinary man. But he was not again alone with Lily Dale, nor did 
he learn whether she had in truth written those two words in her 
book. But the reader may know that she did write them there on 
the evening of the day on which the promise was made. " Lilian 
Dale, Old Maid." 

And when John's holiday was over, he returned to his duties at 
the elbow of Sir Baffle Buffle. 



BOUT this time Grace Craw- 
ley received two letters, the 
first of them reaching her 
while John Eames was still 
at the cottage, and the other 
immediately after his return 
to London. They both help 
to tell our story, and our 
reader shall, therefore, read 
them if he so please, or, 
rather, he shall read the first 
and as much of the second as 
is necessary for him. Grace's 
answer to the first letter he 
shall see also. Her answer to 
the second will be told in a 
very few words. The first 
was from Major Grantly, and 

the task of answering that was by no means easy to Grace. 

" DEAKEST GRACE, " Cosby Lodge, February, 186. 

" I TOLD you when I parted from you, that I should write to 
you, and I think it best to da so at once, in order that you may fully 
understand me. Spoken words are soon forgotten," "I shall never 
forget his words," Grace said to herself- as she read this ; " and are 
not always as plain as they might be. Dear Grace, I suppose I ought 
not to say so, but I fancied when I parted from you at Allington, that 
I had succeeded in making myself dear to you. I believe you to be so 
true in spirit, that you were unable to conceal from me the fact that 
you love me. I shall believe that this is so, till I am deliberately and 
solemnly assured by yourself that it is not so ; and I conjure you to 
think what is due both to yourself and to myself, before you allow 
yourself to think of making such an assurance unless it be strictly true. 
" I have already told my own friends that I have asked you to be 
xrv. E E 


my wife. I tell you this, in order that you may know how little effect 
your answer to me has had towards inducing me to give you up. What 
you said about your father and your family has no weight with me, 
and ought ultimately to have none with you. This business of your 
father's is .a great misfortune, so great that, probably, had we not 
known each other before it happened, it might have prevented our 
becoming intimate when we chanced to meet. But we had met before 
it happened, and before it happened I had determined to ask you to be 
my wife. What should I have to think of myself if I allowed my heart 
to be altered by such a cause as that ? 

" I have only further to say that I love you better than any one in 
the world, and that it is my best hope that you will be my wife. I 
will not press you till this affair of your father's has been settled ; but 
when that is over I shall look for my reward without reference to its 
result. Not that I doubt the result if there be anything like justice 
in England ; but that your debt to me, if you owe me any debt, will 
be altogether irrespective of that. If, as I suppose, you will remain 
at Allington for some time longer, I shall not see you till after the 
trial is over. As soon as that is done, I will come to you wherever you 
are. In the meantime I shall look for an answer to this ; and if it 
be true that you love me, dear, dear Grace, pray have the courage to 
tell me so. 

" Most affectionately your own, 


When the letter was given to Grace across the breakfast-table, both 
Mrs. Dale and Lily suspected that it came from Major Grantly, but 
not a word was spoken about it. When Grace with hesitating hand 
broke the envelope, neither of her friends looked at her. Lily had a 
letter of her own, and Mrs. Dale opened the newspaper. But still it 
was impossible not to perceive that her face became red with blushes, 
and then they knew that the letter must be from Major Grantly. Grace 
herself could not read it, though her eye ran down over the two pages 
catching a word here and a word there. She had looked at the name 
at once, and had seen the manner of his signature. " Most affection- 
ately your own ! " What was she to say to him ? Twice, thrice, as 
she sat at the breakfast-table she turned the page of the letter, and at 
each turning she read the signature. And she read the beginning, 
" Dearest Grace." More than that she did not really read till she had 
got the letter away with her into the seclusion of her own room. 

Not a word was said about the letter at breakfast. Poor Grace 


went on eating or pretending to eat, but could not bring herself to utter 
a word. Mrs. Dale and Lily spoke of various matters, which were 
quite indifferent to them ; but even with them the conversation was so 
difficult that Grace felt it to be forced, and was conscious that they 
wore thinking about her and her lover. As soon as she could make an 
excuse she left the room, and hurrying upstairs took the letter from her 
pocket and read it in earnest. 

" That was from Major Grantly, mamma," said Lily. 

" I daresay it was, my dear." 

" And what had we better do ; or what had we better say ? " 

" Nothing, I should say. Let him fight his own battle. If we 
interfere, we may probably only make her more stubborn in clinging 
to her old idea." 

" I think she will cling to it." 

" For a time she will, I daresay. And it will be best that she 
should. He himself will respect her for it afterwards." Thus it was 
agreed between them that they should say nothing to Grace about the 
letter unless Grace should first speak to them. 

Grace read her letter over and over again. It was the first love- 
letter she had ever had ; the first letter she had ever received from 
any man except her father and brother, the first, almost, that had 
ever been written to her by any other than her own old special friends. 
The words of it were very strange to her ear. He had told her when 
he left her that he would write to her, and therefore she had looked 
forward to the event which had now come ; but she had thought that it 
would be much more distant, and she had tried to make herself 
believe that when it did come it would be very different from this letter 
which she now possessed. " He will tell me that he has altered his mind. 
Ho ought to do so. It is not proper that he should still think of me 
when we are in such disgrace." But now the letter had come, and she 
acknowledged the truth of his saying that written words were clearer in 
their expression than those simply spoken. "Not that I could ever 
forget a syllable that he said." Yet, as she held the letter in her hand 
she felt that it was a possession. It was a thing at which she could 
look in coming years, when he and she might be far apart, a thing at 
which she could look with pride in remembering that he had thought 
her worthy of it. 

Neither on that day nor on the next did she think of her answer, 
nor on the third or the fourth with any steady thinking. She 
knew that an answer would have to be written, and she felt that the 
sooner it was written the easier might be the writing ; but she felt 

E E 2 


also that it should not be written too quickly. A week should first 
elapse, she thought, and therefore a week was allowed to elapse, and 
then the day for writing her answer came. She had spoken no word 
about it either to Mrs. Dale or to Lily. She had longed to do so, but 
had feared. Even though she should speak to Lily she could not be 
led by Lily's advice. Her letter, whatever it might be, must be her 
own letter. She would admit of no dictation. She must say her own 
say, let her say it ever so badly. As to the manner of saying it, Lily's 
aid would have been invaluable; but she feared that she could not 
secure that aid without compromising her own power of action, her 
own individuality ; and therefore she said no word about the letter 
either to Lily or to Lily's mother. 

On a certain morning she fixed herself at her desk to write her 
letter. She had known that the task would be difficult, but she had 
little known how difficult it would be. On that day of her first attempt 
she did not get it written at all. How was she to begin ? He had 
called her "Dearest Grace ; " and this mode of beginning seemed as easy 
as it was sweet. "It is very easy for a gentleman," she said to her- 
self, " because he may say just what he pleases." She wrote the 
words, " Dearest Henry," on a scrap of paper, and immediately tore 
it into fragments as though she were ashamed of having written them. 
She knew that she would not dare to send away a letter beginning 
with such words. She would not even have dared to let such words 
in her own handwriting remain within the recesses of her own little 
desk. " Dear Major Grantly," she began at length. It seemed to 
her to be very ugly, but after much consideration she believed it to be 
correct. On the second day the letter was written as follows : 

1 ' MY DEAR MAJOR GRANTLY, " Allington, Thursday. 

" I DO not know how I ought to answer your kind letter, but I 
must tell you that I am very much flattered by your great goodness to 
me. I cannot understand why you should think so much of me, but I 
suppose it is because you have felt for all our misfortunes. I will not say 
anything about what might have happened, if it had not been for papa's 
sorrow and disgrace ; and as far as I can help it, I will not think of 
it ; but I am sure that I ought not to think about loving any one, that 
is, in the way you mean, while we are in such trouble at home. I 
should not dare to meet any of your great friends, knowing that I had 
brought nothing with me but disgrace. And I should feel that I was 
doing an injury to dear Edith, which would be worse to me than 


" Pray believe that I am quite in earnest about this. I know that 
a gentleman ought not to marry any girl to do himself and his family 
an- injury by it ; and I know that if I were to make such a marriage 
I should be unhappy ever afterwards, even though I loved the man 
ever so dearly, with all my heart." These last words she had under- 
scored at first, but the doing so had been the unconscious expression 
of her own affection, and had been done with no desire on her part 
to convey that expression to him. But on reading the words she 
discovered their latent meaning, and wrote it all again. 

" Therefore I know that it will be best that I should wish you 
good-by, and I do so, thanking you again and again for your goodness 
to me. 

" Believe me to be, 

" Yours very sincerely, 


The letter when it was written was hateful to her ; but she had 
tried her hand at it again and again, and had found that she could 
do nothing better. There was much in his letter that she had not 
attempted to answer. He had implored her to tell him whether or no 
she did in truth love him. Of course she loved him. He knew that 
well enough. Why should she answer any such question ? There 
was a way of answering it indeed which might serve her turn, or 
rather serve his, of which she was thinking more than of her own. 
She might say that she did not love him. It would be a lie, and he 
would know that it would be a lie. But still it might serve the turn. 
She did not like the idea of writing such a lie as that, but nevertheless 
she considered the matter. It would be very wicked ; but still, if it 
would serve the turn, might it not be well to write it. But at last 
she reflected that, after all, the doing of the thing was in her own 
hands. She could refuse to marry this man without burdening her 
conscience with any lie about it. It only required that she should be 
firm. She abstained, therefore, from the falsehood, and left her 
lover's question unanswered. So she put up her letter and directed it, 
and carried it herself to the village post-office. 

On the day after this she got the second letter, and that she showed 
immediately to Mrs. Dale. It was from her mother, and was written 
to tell her that her father was seriously ill. " He went up to London 
to see a lawyer about this weary work of the trial," said Mrs. Crawley. 
* ' The fatigue was very great, and on the next day he was so weak that 
he could not leave his bed. Dr. Turner, who has been very kind, says 


that we need not frighten ourselves, but he thinks it must be some time 
before he can leave the house. He has a low fever on him, and wants 
nourishment. His mind has wandered once or twice, and he has as.ked 
for you, and I think it will be best, love, that you should come home. 
I know you will not mind it when I say that I think he would like to 
have you here. Dr. Turner says that the illness is chiefly owing to his 
not having proper food." 

Of course she would go at once. "Dear Mrs. Dale," she said, 
" I must go home. Can you send me to the station?" Then Mrs. 
Dale read the letter. Of course they would send her. Would she go 
on that day, or on the next ? Might it not be better to write first, and 
say that she was going ? But Grace would go at once. " I know it 
will be a comfort to mamma ; and I know that he is worse than mamma 
says." Of course there was no more to be said, and she was despatched 
to the station. Before she went Mrs. Dale asked after her purse. " If 
there is any trouble about money, for your journey, or anything, 
you will not scruple to come to me as to an old friend." But Grace 
assured her that there was no trouble about money for her journey. 
Then Lily took her aside and produced two clean new five-pound notes. 
" Grace, dear, you won't be ill-natured. You know I have a little 
fortune of my own. You know I can give them without missing them." 
Grace threw herself into her friend's arms and wept, but would have 
none of her money. "Buy a present from me for your mother, 
whom I love though I do not know her." " I will give her your love," 
Grace said, " but nothing else." And then she went. 



MR. DOBBS BBOUGHTON and Mr. Musselboro were sitting together on a 
certain morning at their office in the City, discussing the affairs of their 
joint business. The City office was a very poor place indeed, in com- 
parison with the fine house which Mr. Dobbs occupied at the West End ; 
but then City offices are poor places, and there are certain City occupa- 
tions which seem to enjoy the greater credit the poorer are the 
material circumstances by which they are surrounded. Turning out of a 
lane which turns out of Lombard Street, there is a desolate, forlorn- 
looking, dark alley, which is called Hook Court. The entrance to this 


alley is beneath the first-floor of one of the houses in the lane, and in 
passing under this covered way the visitor to the place finds himself in 
a small paved square court, at the two further corners of which there 
are two open doors ; for in Hook Court there are only two houses. 
There is No. 1, Hook Court, and No. 2, Hook Court. The entire premises 
indicated by No 1, are occupied by a firm of wine and spirit merchants, 
in connexion with whose trade one side and two angles of the court are 
always lumbered with crates, hampers, and wooden cases. And nearly 
in the middle of the court, though somewhat more to the wine-merchants' 
side than to the other, there is always gaping open a trap-door, leading 
down to vaults below ; and over the trap there is a great board with 
a bright advertisement in very large letters : 



225. 6d. per dozen. 

And this notice is so bright and so large, and the trap-door is so 
conspicuous in the court, that no visitor, even to No. 2, ever after- 
wards can quite divest his memory of those names, Burton and Bangles, 
Himalaya wines. It may therefore be acknowledged that Burton and 
Bangles have achieved their object in putting up the notice. The house 
No. 2, small as it seems to be, standing in the jamb of a corner, is 
divided among different occupiers, whose names are painted in small 
letters upon the very dirty posts of the doorway. Nothing can be more 
remarkable than the contrast between Burton and Bangles and these 
other -City gentlemen in the method taken by them in declaring their 
presence to visitors in the court. The names of Dobbs Broughton and 
of A. Musselboro, the Christian name of Mr. Musselboro was 
Augustus, were on one of those dirty posts, not joined together by 
any visible "and," so as to declare boldly that they were partners; 
but in close vicinity, showing at least that the two gentlemen would 
be found in apartments very near to each other. And on the first-floor 
of this house Dobbs Broughton and his friend did occupy three rooms, 
or rather two rooms and a closet between them. The larger and 
front room was tenanted by an old clerk, who sat within a rail in one 
corner of it. And there was a broad, short counter which jutted out 
from the wall into the middle of the room, intended for the use of such 
of the public as might come to transact miscellaneous business with 
Dobbs Broughton or Augustus Musselboro. But any one accustomed 
to the look of offices might have seen with half an eye that very little 
business was ever done on that counter. Behind this large room was a 


smaller one, belonging to Dobbs Broughton, in the furnishing and 
arrangement of which some regard had been paid to comfort. The 
room was carpeted, and there was a sofa in it, though a very old one, 
and two arm-chairs and a mahogany office-table, and a cellaret, which 
was generally well supplied with wine which Dobbs Broughton did not 
get out of the vaults of his neighbours, Burton and Bangles. Behind 
this again, but with a separate entrance from the passage, was the closet; 
and this closet was specially devoted to the use of Mr. Musselboro. 
Closet as it was, or cupboard as it might almost have been called, it 
contained a table and two chairs ; and it had a window of its own, 
which opened out upon a blank wall which was distant from it not above 
four feet. As the house to which this wall belonged was four stories 
high, it would sometimes happen that Mr. Musselboro' s cupboard was 
rather dark. But this mattered the less as in these days Mr. Mussel- 
boro seldom used it. Mr. Musselboro, who was very constant at his 
place of business, much more constant than his friend, Dobbs 
Broughton, was generally to be found in his friend's room. Only on 
some special occasions, on which it was thought expedient that the 
commercial world should be made to understand that Mr. Augustus 
Musselboro had an individual existence of his own, did that gentleman 
really seat himself in the dark closet. Mr. Dobbs Broughton, had he 
been asked what was his trade, would have said that he was a stock- 
broker ; and he would have answered truly, for he was a stockbroker. 
A man may be a stockbroker though he never sells any stock ; as he 
may be a barrister though he has no practice at the bar. I do not say 
that Mr. Broughton never sold any stock ; but the buying and selling of 
stock for other people was certainly not his chief business. And had 
Mr. Musselboro been asked what was his trade, he would have probably 
given an evasive answer. At any rate in the City, and among people 
who understood City matters, he would not have said that he was a 
stockbroker. Both Mr. Broughton and Mr. Musselboro bought and sold 
a good deal, but it was chiefly on account. The shares which were 
bought and sold very generally did not pass from hand to hand ; but 
the difference in the price of the shares did do so. And then they had 
another little business between them. They lent money on interest. 
And in this business there was a third partner, whose name did not 
appear on the dirty door-post. That third partner was Mrs. Van 
Siever, the mother of Clara Van Siever whom Mr. Conway Dalryinple 
intended to portray as Jael driving a nail into Sisera's head. 

On a certain morning Mr. Broughton and Mr. Musselboro were 
sitting together in the office which has been described. They were in 


Mr. Broughton's room, and occupied each an arm-chair on the different 
sides of the fire. Mr. Musselboro was sitting close to the table, on 
which a ledger was open before him, and he had a pen and ink before 
him, as though he had been at work. Dobbs Broughton had a small 
betting-book in his hand, and was seated with his feet up against the 
side of the fireplace. Both men wore their hats, and the aspect of the 
room was not the aspect of a place of business. They had been silent 
for some minutes when Broughton took his cigar-case out of his pocket, 
and nibbled off the end of a cigar, preparatory to lighting it. 

" You had better not smoke here this morning, Dobbs," said 

" Why shouldn't I smoke in my own room ? " 

" Because she'll be here just now." 

" What do I care ? If you think I'm going to be afraid of Mother 
Van, you're mistaken. Let come what may, I'm not going to live under 
her thumb." So he lighted his cigar. 

" All right," said Musselboro, and he took up his pen and went to 
work at his book. 

" What is she coming here for this morning ? " asked Broughton. ; 

" To look after her money. What should she come for ? " 

" She gets her interest. I don't suppose there's better paid money 
in the City." 

" She hasn't got what was coming to her at Christmas yet." 

" And this is February. What would she have ? She had better 
put her dirty money into the three per cents., if she is frightened at 
having to wait a week or two." 

" Can she have it to-day ? " 

" What, the whole of it ? Of course she can't. You know that as 
well as I do. She can have four hundred pounds, if she wants it. But 
seeing all she gets out of the concern, she has no right to press for it in 
that way. She is the old usurer I ever came across in my life." 

" Of course she likes her money." 

" Likes her money ! By George she does ; her own and anybody 
else's that she can get hold of. For a downright leech, recommend me 
always to a woman. When a woman does go in for it, she is much 
more thorough than any man." Then Broughton turned over the little 
pages of his book, and Musselboro pondered over the big pages of his 
book, and there was silence for a quarter of an hour. 

" There's something about nine hundred and fifteen pounds due to 
her," said Musselboro. 

" I daresay there is." 


" It would be a very good thing to let her have it if you've got it. 
The whole of it this morning, I mean." 

f( If ! yes, if ! " said Broughton. 

" I know there's more than that at the bank." 

" And I'm to draw out every shilling that there is ! I'll see Mother 
Van further first. She can have 5QO. if she likes it, and the rest 
in a fortnight. Or she can have my note-of-hand for it all at fourteen 

" She won't like that at all," said Musselboro. 

"Then she must lump it. I'm not going to bother myself about 
her. I've pretty nearly as much money in it as she has, and we're in 
a boat together. If she comes here bothering, you'd better tell her so." 

" You'll see her yourself? " 

" Not unless she comes within the next ten minutes. I must go 
down to the court. I said I'd be there by twelve. I've got somebody 
I want to see." 

" I'd stay if I were you." 

" Why should I stay for her? If she thinks that I'm going to 
make myself her clerk, she's mistaken. It may be all very well for 
you, Mussy, but it won't do for me. I'm not dependent on her, and 
I don't want to marry her daughter." 

" It will simply end in her demanding to have her money back 

" And how will she get it ? " said Dobbs Broughton. " I haven't 
a doubt in life but she'd take it to-morrow if -she could put her hands 
upon it. And then, after a bit, when she began to find that she didn't 
like four per cent., she'd bring it back again. But nobody can do 
business after such a fashion as that. For the last three years she's 
drawn close upon two thousand a year for less than eighteen thousand 
pounds. When a woman wants to do that, she can't have her money 
in her pocket every Monday morning." 

" But you've done better than that yourself, Dobbs." 

" Of course I have. And who has made the connexion : and who 
has done the work ? I suppose she doesn't think that I'm to have 
all the sweat and that she is to have all the profit." 

" If you talk of work, Dobbs, it is I that have done the most of it." 
This Mr. Musselboro said in a very serious voice, and with a look of 
much reproach. 

"And you've been paid for what you've done. Come, Mussy, 
you'd better not turn against me. You'll never get your change out 
of that. Even if you marry the daughter, that won't give you the 


mother's money. She'll stick to every shilling of it till she dies ; and 
she'd take it with her then, if she knew how." Having said this, he 
got up from his chair, put his little book into his pocket, and walked 
out of the office. He pushed his way across the court, which was more 
than ordinarily crowded with the implements of Burton and Bangles' 
trade, and as he passed under the covered way he encountered at the 
entrance an old woman getting out of a cab. The old woman was, of 
course, Mother Yan, as her partner, Mr. Dobbs Broughton, irreverently 
called her. "Mrs. Van Siever, how d'ye do? Let me give you a 
hand. Fare from South Kensington ? I always give the fellows three 

"You don't mean to tell me it's six miles ! " And she tendered 
a florin to the man. 

" Can't take that, ma'am," said the cabman. 

"Cant take it! But you must take it. Broughton, just get a 
policeman, will you ? " Dobbs Broughton satisfied the driver out of 
his own pocket, and the cab was driven away. " What did you give 
him ? " said Mrs. Van Siever. 

" Just another sixpence. There never is a policeman anywhere 
about here." 

"It'll be out of your own pocket, then," said Mrs. Van. "But 
you're not going away ? " 

" I must be at Capel Court by half-past twelve ; I must, indeed. 
If it wasn't real business, I'd stay." 

" I told Musselboro I should be here." 

' He's up there, and he knows all about the business just as well 
as I do. When I found that I couldn't stay for you, I went through 
the account with him, and it's all settled. Good morning. I'll see you 
at the West End in a day or two." Then he made his way out into 
Lombard Street, and Mrs. Van Siever picked her steps across the yard, 
and mounted the stairs, and made her way into the room in which 
Mr. Musselboro was sitting. 

" Somebody's been smoking, Gus," she said, almost as soon as she 
had entered the room. 

" That's nothing new here," he replied, as he got up from his chair. 

" There's no good being done when men sit and smoke over their 
work. Is it you, or he, or both of yon ? " 

" Well ; it was Broughton was smoking just now. I don't smoke 
of a morning myself." 

" What made him get up and run away when I came ? " 

" How can I tell, Mrs. Van Siever," said Musselboro, laughing. 


"If he did run away when you came, I suppose it was because he 
didn't want to see you." 

" And why shouldn't he want to see nie ? Gus, I expect the 
truth from you. How are things going on here ? " To this question 
Mr. Musselboro made no immediate answer ; but tilted himself back in 
his chair and took his hat off, and put his thumbs into the arm-holes 
of his waistcoat, and looked his patroness full in the face. " Gus," 
she said again, " I do expect the truth from you. How are things 
going on here ? " 

" There'd be a good business, if he'd only keep things together." 

" But he's idle. Isn't he idle ? " 

" Confoundedly idle," said Musselboro. 

" And he drinks ; don't he drink in the day ? " 

" Like the mischief, some days. But that isn't the worst of it." 

" And what is the worst of it ? " 

" Newmarket ; that's the rock he's going to pieces on." 

" You don't mean to say he takes the money out of the business 
for that ? " And Mrs. Van Siever's face, as she asked the question, 
expressed almost a tragic horror. " If I thought that I wouldn't give 
him an hour's mercy." 

" When a man bets he doesn't well know what money he uses. I 
can't say that he takes money that is not his own. Situated as I am, 
I don't know what is his own and what isn't. If your money was in my 
name I could keep a hand on it ; but as it is not I can do nothing. I 
can see that what is put out is put out fairly well ; and when I think 
of it, Mrs. Van Siever, it is quite wonderful that we've lost so little. 
It has been next to nothing. That has been my doing ; and that's 
about all that I can do." 

" You must know whether he has used my money for his own 
purposes or not." 

" If you ask me, I think he has," said Mr. Musselboro. 

" Then I'll go into it, and I'll find it out, and if it is so, as sure as 
my name's Van Siever, I'll sew him up." Having uttered which 
terrible threat, the old woman drew a chair to the table and seated 
herself fairly down, as though she were determined to go through all 
the books of the office before she quitted that room. Mrs. Van Siever 
in her present habiliments was not a thing so terrible to look at as she 
had been in her wiggeries at Mrs. Dobbs Broughton's dinner-table. 
Her curls were laid aside altogether, and she wore simply a front 
beneath her close bonnet, and a very old front, too, which was not 
loudly offensive because it told no lies. Her eyes were as bright, and 


her little wizen face was as sharp, as ever ; but the wizen face and the 
bright eyes were not so much amiss as seen together with the old dark 
brown silk dress which she now wore, as they had been with the wig- 
geries and the evening finery. Even now, in her morning costume, in 
her work-a-day business dress, as we may call it, she looked to be very 
old, so old that nobody could guess her age. People attempting to 
guess would say that she must be at least over eighty. And yet she 
was wiry, and strong, and nimble. It was not because she was feeble 
that she was thought to be so old. They who so judged of her were led 
to their opinion by the extreme thinness of her face, and by the bright- 
ness of her eyes, joined to the depth of the hollows in which they lay, 
and the red margin by which they were surrounded. It was not really 
the fact that Mrs. Van Siever was so very aged, for she had still some 
years to live before she would reach eighty, but that she was such a weird 
old woman, so small, so ghastly, and so ugly ! " I'll sew him up, if he's 
been robbing me," she said. " I will, indeed." And she stretched out 
her hand to grab at the ledger which Musselboro had been using. 

" You won't understand anything from that," said he, pushing the 
book over to her. 

" You can explain it to me." 

" That's all straight sailing, that is." 

"And where does he keep the figures that ain't straight sailing? 
That's the book I want to see." 

" There is no such book." 

" Look here, Grus, if I find you deceiving me I'll throw you over- 
board as sure as I'm a living woman. I will indeed. I'll have no mercy. 
I've stuck to you, and made a man of you, and I expect you to stick 
to me." 

"Not much of a man," said Musselboro, with a touch of scorn in 
his voice. 

" You've never had a shilling yet but what I gave you." 

" Yes ; I have. I've had what I've worked for, and worked con- 
founded hard too." 

"Look here, Musselboro ; if you're going to throw me over, just 
tell me so, and let us begin fair." 

" I'm not going to throw you over. I've always been on the square 
with you. Why don't you trust me out and out, and then I could do 
a deal better for you. You ask me now about your money. I don't 
know about your money, Mrs. Van Siever. How am I to know any- 
thing about your money, Mrs. Van Siever ? You don't give me any power 
of keeping a hand upon Dobbs Broughton. I suppose you have security 


from Dobbs Broughton, but I don't know what security you have, Mrs. 
Van Siever. He owes you now 915Z. 16s. 2d. on last year's account ! " 

" Why doesn't he give me a cheque for the money ? " 

" He says he can't spare it. You may have 500?., and the rest 
when he can give it you. Or he'll give you his note-of-hand at fourteen 
clays for the whole." 

" Bother his note-of-hand. Why should I take his note-of-hand ? " 

"Do as you like, Mrs. Van Siever." 

" It's the interest on my own money. Why don't he give it me ? 
I suppose he has had it." 

" You must ask him that, Mrs. Van Siever. You're in partnership 
with him, and he can tell you. Nobody else, knows anything about it. 
If you were in partnership with me, then of course I could tell you. 
But you're not. You've never trusted me, Mrs. Van Siever." 

The lady remained there closeted with Mr. Musselboro for an hour 
after that, and did, I think, at length learn something more as to the 
details of her partner's business , than her faithful servant Mr. Musselboro 
had at first found himself able to give to her. And at last they came 
to friendly and confidential terms, in the midst of which the personal 
welfare of Mr. Dobbs Broughton was, I fear, somewhat forgotten. Not 
that Mr. Musselboro palpably and plainly threw his friend overboard. 
He took his friend's part, alleging excuses for him, and pleading some 
facts. " Of course, you know, a man like that is fond of pleasure, 
Mrs. Van Siever. He's been at it more or less all his life. I don't 
suppose he ever missed a Derby or an Oaks, or the cup at Ascot, or the 
Goodwood in his life." " He'll have to miss them before long, I'm 
thinking," said Mrs. Van Siever. "And as to not cashing up, you 
must remember, Mrs. Van Siever, that ten per cent, won't come in 
quite as regularly as four or five. When you go for high interest, there 
must be hitches here and there. There must, indeed, Mrs. Van Siever." 
" I know all about it," said Mrs. Van Siever. "If he gave it me as 
soon as he got it himself, I shouldn't complain. Never mind. He's 
only got to give me my little bit of money out of the business, and then he 
and I will be all square. You come and see Clara this evening, Gus." 

Then Mr. Musselboro put Mrs. Van Siever into another cab, and 
went out upon 'Change, hanging about the Bank, and standing in 
Threadneedle Street, talking to other men just like himself. When he 
saw Dobbs Broughton he told that gentleman that Mrs. Van Siever had 
been in her tantrums, but that he had managed to pacify her before she 
left Hook Court. "I'm to take her the cheque for the five hundred 
to-night," he said. 


ON the first of March, Conway Dalrymple's easel was put up in Mrs. 
i>obbs Broughton's boudoir upstairs, the canvas was placed upon it on 
which the outlines of Jael and Sisera had been already drawn, and 
Mrs. Broughton and Clara Van Siever and Conway Dalrymple were 
assembled with the view of steady art-work. But before we see how 
they began their work together, we will go back for a moment to John 
Eames on his return to his London lodgings. The first thing every 
man does when he returns home after an absence, is to look at his 
letters, and John Eames looked at his. There were not very many. 
There was a note marked immediate, from Sir Raffle Buffle, in which 
Sir R. had scrawled in four lines a notification that he should be driven 
to an extremity of inconvenience if Eames were not at his post at half- 
past nine on the following morning. "I think I see myself there at 
that hour," said John. There was a notification of a house dinner, 
which he was asked to join, at his club, and a card for an evening 
gathering at Lady Grlencora talliser's, procured for him by his friend 
Conway, and an invitation to dinner at the house of his uncle, 
Mr. Toogood ; and there was a scented note in the handwriting of a 
lady, which he did not recognize. " My nearest and dearest friend, 
M. D. M.," he said, as he opened the note and looked at the signature. 
Then he read the letter from Miss Demolines. 


" PRAY come to me at once. I know that you are to be back 
to-morrow. Do not lose an hour if you can help it. I shall be at 
home at half-past five. I fear what you know of has been begun. 
But it certainly shall not go on. In one way or another it must be 
prevented. I won't say another word till I see you, but pray come 
at once. 

" Yours always, 
" Thursday." " M, D. M." 

" Poor mamma isn't very well, so you had better ask for me.'' 

" Beautiful ! " said Johnny, as he read the note. " There's nothing 


I like so much as a mystery, especially if it's about nothing. I 
wonder why she is so desperately anxious that the picture should 
not be painted. I'd ask Dalrymple, only I should spoil the mystery." 
Then he sat himself down, and began to think of Lily. There could 
be no treason to Lily in his amusing himself with the freaks of such a 
woman as Miss Demolines. 

At eleven o'clock on the morning of the 1st of March, the day 
following that on which Miss Demolines had written her note, the easel 
was put up and the canvas was placed on it in Mrs. Broughton's room. 
Mrs. Broughton and Clara were both there, and when they had seen the 
outlines as far as it had been drawn, they proceeded to make arrange- 
ments for their future operations. The period of work was to begin 
always at eleven, and was to be continued for an hour and a half or 
for two hours on the days on which they met. I fear that there was 
a little improper scheming in this against the two persons whom 
the ladies were bound to obey. Mr. Dobbs Broughton invariably 
left his house soon after ten in the morning. It would sometimes 
happen, though not frequently, that he returned home early in the 
day, at four perhaps, or even before that ; and should he chance to 
do so while the picture was going on, he would catch them at their 
work if the work were postponed till after luncheon. And then again, 
Mrs. Van Siever would often go out in the morning, and when she 
did so, would always go without her daughter. On such occasions 
she went into the city, or to other resorts of business, ' at which, in 
some manner quite unintelligible to her daughter, she looked after her 
money. But when she did not go out in the morning, she did go out 
in the afternoon, and she would then require her daughter's company. 
There was some place to which she always went of a Friday morning, 
and at which she stayed for two or three hours. Friday therefore was 
a fitting day on which to begin the work at Mrs. Broughton's house. 
All this was explained between the three conspirators. Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton declared that if she entertained the slightest idea that her 
husband would object to the painting of the picture in her room, 
nothing on earth would induce her to lend her countenance to it ; but 
yet it might be well not to tell him just at first, perhaps not till the 
sittings were over, perhaps not till the picture was finished ; as, 
otherwise, tidings of the picture might get round to ears which were not 
intended to hear it. " Poor dear Dobbs is so careless with a secret." 
Miss Van Siever explained her motives in a very different way. " I 
know mamma would not let me do it if she knew it ; and therefore 
I shall not tell her." " My dear Clara," said Mrs. Broughton with a 

JAEL. 329 

smile, "you are so outspoken! " " And why not ? " said Miss Van 
Siever. " I am old enough to judge for myself. If mamma does not 
want to be deceived, she ought not to treat me like a child. Of course 
she'll find it out sooner or later; but I don't care about that." Conway 
Dalrymple said nothing as the two ladies were thus excusing themselves. 
" How delightful it must be not to have a master," said Mrs. Broughton, 
addressing him. " But then a man has to work for his own bread," 
said he. " I suppose it comes about equal in the long run." 

Very little drawing or painting was done on that day. In the first 
place it was necessary that the question of costume should be settled, 
and both Mrs. Broughton and the artist had much to say on the 
subject. It was considered proper that Jael should be dressed as a 
Jewess, and there came to be much question how Jewesses dressed 
themselves in those very early days. Mrs. Broughton had prepared 
her jewels and raiment of many colours, but the painter declared that 
the wife of Heber the Kenite would have no jewels. But when Mrs. 
Broughton discovered from her Bible that Heber had been connected by 
family ties with Moses, she was more than ever sure that Heber's wife 
would have in her tent much of the spoilings of the Egyptians. And 
when Clara Van Siever suggested that at any rate she would not have 
worn them in a time of confusion when soldiers were loose, flying about 
the country, Mrs. Broughton was quite confident that she would have 
put them on before she invited the captain of the enemy's host into her 
tent. The artist at last took the matter into his own hand by declaring 
that Miss Van Siever would sit the subject much better without jewels, 
and therefore all Mrs. Broughton' s gewgaws were put back into their 
boxes. And then on four different times the two ladies had to retire 
into Mrs. Broughton' s room in order that Jael might be arrayed in 
various costumes, and in each costume she had to kneel down, taking 
the hammer in her hand, and holding the pointed stick which had been 
prepared to do duty as the nail, upon the forehead of a dummy Sisera. 
At last it was decided that her raiment should be altogether white, and 
that she should wear, twisted round her head and falling over her 
shoulder, a Roman silk scarf of various colours. " Where Jael could have 
gotten it I don't know," said Clara. " You may be sure that there were 
lots of such things among the Egyptians," said Mrs. Broughton, " and 
that Moses brought away all the best for his own family." 

" And who is to be Sisera ? " asked Mrs. Broughton in one of the 
pauses in their work. ' 

" I'm thinking of asking my friend John Eames to sit." 

" Of course we cannot sit together," said Miss Van Siever. 

xrv. yy 


" There's no reason why you should," said Dalrymple. " I can do 
the second figure in my own room." Then there was a bargain made 
that Sisera should not be a portrait. "It would never do," said Mrs. 
Broughton, shaking her head very gravely. 

Though there was really very little done to the picture on that day, 
the work was commenced ; and Mrs. Broughton, who had at first 
objected strongly to the idea, and who had said twenty times that it was 
quite out of the question that it should be done in her house, became 
very eager in her delight about it. Nobody should know anything of 
the picture till it should be exhibited. That would be best. And it 
should be the picture of the year ! She was a little heart-broken when 
Dalrymple assured her that it could not possibly be finished for exhibi- 
tion in that May ; but she came to again when he declared that he 
meant to put out all his strength upon it. " There will be five or six 
months' work in it," he said. " Will there, indeed ? And how much 
work was there in ' The Graces ? ' ' " The Graces," as will perhaps 
be remembered, was the triple portrait of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton her- 
self. This question the artist did not answer with absolute accuracy, 
but contented himself with declaring that with such a model as Mrs. 
Broughton the picture had been comparatively easy. 

Mrs. Broughton, having no doubt that ultimate object of which she 
had spoken to her friend Conway steadily in view, took occasion before 
the sitting was over to leave the room, so that the artist might have 
an opportunity of speaking a word in private to his model, if he had 
any such word to speak. And Mrs. Broughton, as she did this, felt 
that she was doing her duty as a wife, a friend, and a Christian. She 
was doing her duty as a wife, because she was giving the clearest proof 
in the world, the clearest at any rate to herself, that the intimacy 
between herself and her friend Conway had in it nothing that was 
improper. And she was doing her duty as a friend, because Clara Van 
Siever, with her large expectations, would be an eligible wife. And she 
was doing her duty as a Christian, because the whole thing was intended 
to be moral. Miss Demolines had declared that her friend Maria Clutter- 
buck, as Miss Demolines delighted to call Mrs. Broughton, in memory 
of dear old innocent days,- had high principles ; and the reader will 
see that she was justified in her declaration. "It will be better so," 
said Mrs. Broughton, as she sat upon her bed and wiped a tear from 
the corner of her eye. "Yes; it will be better so. There is a pang. 
Of course there's a pang. But it will be better so." Acting upon this 
high principle, she allowed Conway Dalrymple five minutes to say what 
he had to say to Clara Van Siever. Then she allowed herself to 

JAEL. 331 

indulge in some very savage feelings in reference to her husband, 
accusing her husband in Her thoughts of great cruelty, nay, of 
brutality, because of certain sharp words that he had said as to Conway 
Dalryinple. " But of course he can't understand," said Mrs. Broughton 
to herself. " How is it to be expected that he should understand ? " 

But she allowed her friend on this occasion only five minutes, 
thinking probably that so much time might suffice. A woman, wljen 
she is jealous, is apt to attribute to the other woman with whom her 
jealousy is concerned, both weakness and timidity, and to the man both 
audacity and strength. A woman who has herself taken perhaps 
twelve months in the winning, will think that another woman is to be 
won in five minutes. It is not to be supposed that Mrs. Dobbs 
Broughton had ever been won by any one except by Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton. At least, let it not be supposed that she had ever 
acknowledged a spark of love for Conway Dalrymple. But nevertheless 
there was enough of jealousy in her present mood to make her think 
poorly of Miss Van Siever's capacity for standing a siege against the 
artist's eloquence. Otherwise, having left the two together with the 
object which she had acknowledged to herself, she would hardly have 
returned to them after so very short an interval. 

" I hope you won't dislike the trouble of all this ? " said Dalrymple 
to his model, as soon as Mrs. Broughton was gone. 

" I cannot say that I like it very much," said Miss Van Siever. 

" I'm afraid it will be a bore ; but I hope you'll go through 
with it." 

" I shall if I am not prevented," said Miss Van Siever. " When 
I've said that I'll do a thing, I like to do it." 

There was a pause in the conversation which took up a considerable 
portion of the five minutes. Miss Van Siever was not holding her nail 
during these moments, but was sitting in a commonplace way on her 
chair, while Dalrymple was scraping his palette. " I wonder what it 
was that first induced you to sit ? " said he. 

" Oh, I don't know. I took a fancy for it." 

"I'm very glad you did take the fancy. You'll make an excellent 
model. If you won't mind posing again for a few minutes I will 
not weary you to-day. Your right arm a little more forward." 

" But I should tumble down." 

" Not if you lean well on to the nail." 

" But that would have woken Sisera before she had struck a blow." 

"Never mind that. Let us try it." Then Mrs. Broughton 
returned, with that pleasant feeling in her bosom of having done her 


duty as a wife, a friend, and a Christian. " Mrs. Broughton," con- 
tinued the painter, " just steady Miss Van Siever's shoulder with your 
hand ; and now bring the arm and the elbow a little more forward." 

" But Jael did not have a friend to help her in that way," said 
Miss Van Siever. 

At the end of an hour and a half the two ladies retired, and Jael 
disrobed herself, and Miss Van Siever put on her customary raiment. 
It was agreed among them that they had commenced their work 
auspiciously, and that they would meet again on the following Monday. 
The artist begged to be allowed an hour to go on with his work in 
Mrs. Broughton's room, and the hour was conceded to him. It was 
understood that he could not take the canvas backwards and forwards 
with him to his own house, and he pointed out that no progress what- 
ever could be made, unless he were occasionally allowed some such 
grace as this. Mrs. Broughton doubted and hesitated, made difficulties, 
and lifted up her hands in despair. "It is easy for you to say, Why 
not ? but I know very well why not." But at last she gave way. 
" Honi soit qui mal y pense," she said ; " that must be my protection." 
So she followed Miss Van Siever downstairs, leaving Mr. Dalrymple in 
possession of her boudoir. "I shall give you just one hour," she 
said, " and then I shall come and turn you out." So she went down, 
and, as Miss Van Siever would not stay to lunch with her, she ate her 
lunch by herself, sending a glass of sherry and a biscuit up to the poor 
painter at his work. 

Exactly at the end of the hour she returned to him. " Now, 
Conway, you must go," she said. 

" But why in such a hurry ? " 

" Because I say that it must be so. When I say so, pray let that 
be sufficient." But still Dalrymple went on working. " Conway," 
she said, " how can you treat me with so much disdain ? " 

" Disdain, Mrs. Broughton ! " 

" Yes, disdain. Have I not begged you to understand that I cannot 
allow you to remain here, and yet you pay no attention to my wishes." 

" I have done now ; " and he began to put his brushes and paints 
together. " I suppose all these things may remain here ? " 

" Yes ; they may remain. They must do so, of course. There ; 
if you will put the easel in the corner, with the canvas behind it, they 
will not be seen if he should chance to come into the room." 

" He would not be angry, I suppose, if he saw them? " 

" There is no knowing. Men are so unreasonable. All men are, I 
think. All those are whom I have had the fortune to know. Women 

JAEL. 333 

generally say that men are selfish. I do not complain so much that 
they are selfish as that they are thoughtless. They are headstrong 
and do not look forward to results. Now you, I do not think you 
would willingly do me an injury ? " 

" I do not think I would." 

" I am sure you would not ; but yet you would forget to save me 
from one." 

1 ' What injury ?" 

" Oh, never mind. I am not thinking of anything in particular. 
From myself, for instance. But we will not talk about that. That way 
madness lies. Tell me, Con way ; what do you think of Clara Van 
Siever ? " 

" She is very handsome, certainly." 

"And clever?" 

" Decidedly clever. I should think she has a temper of her own." 

" What woman is there worth a straw that has not ? If Clara Van 
Siever were ill-used, she would resent it. I do not doubt that for a 
moment. I should not like to be the man who would do it." 

"Nor I, either," said Conway. 

" But there is plenty of feminine softness in that character, if she 
were treated with love and kindness. Conway, if you will take my 
advice you will ask Clara Van Siever to be your wife. But perhaps 
you have already." 

"Who; I?" 

"Yes; you." 

" I have not done it yet, certainly, Mrs. Broughton." 

" And why should you not do it ? " 

" There are two or three reasons ; but perhaps none of any great 
importance. Do you know of none, Mrs. Broughton ? " 

" I know of none," said Mrs. Broughton in a very serious, in 
almost ti tragic tone ; " of none that should weigh for a moment. As 
far as I am concerned, nothing would give me more pleasure." 

" That is so kind of you ! " 

"I mean to be kind. I do, indeed, Conway. I know it will be 
better for you that you should be settled, very much better. And it 
will be better for me. I do not mind admitting that; though in saying 
so I trust greatly to your generosity to interpret my words properly." 

" I shall not flatter myself, if you mean that." 

" There is no question of flattery, Conway. The question is simply 
of truth and prudence. Do you not know that it would be better that 
you should be married ? " 


"Not unless a certain gentleman were to die first," said Comvay 
Dalrymple, as he deposited the last of his painting paraphernalia in the 
recess which had been prepared for them by Mrs. Broughton. 

61 Conway, how can you speak in that wicked, wicked way ! " 

"I can assure you I do not wish the gentleman in question the 
slightest harm in the world. If his welfare depended on me, he should 
be as safe as the Bank of England." 

" And you will not take my advice ? " 

"What advice? " 

" About Clara ?" 

"Mrs. Broughton, matrimony is a very important thing." 

"Indeed, it is; oh, who can say how important ! There was a 
time, Conway, when I thought you had given your heart to Madalina 

"Heaven forbid ! " 

' ' And I grieved, because I thought that she was not worthy 
of you." 

" There was never anything in that, Mrs. Broughton." 

" She thought that there was. At any rate, she said so. I know 
that for certain. She told me so herself. But let that pass. Clara 
Van Siever is in every respect very different from Madalina. Clara, I 
think, is worthy of you. And Conway, of course it is not for me to 

dictate to you ; but this I must tell you " Then she paused, as 

though she did not know how to finish her sentence. 

" What must you tell me ? " 

" I will tell you nothing more. If you cannot understand what I 
have said, you must be more dull of comprehension than I believe you 
to be. Now go. Why are you not gone this half -hour ? " 

" How could I go while you were giving me all this good advice ? " 

"I have not asked you to stay. Go now, at any rate. And, 
remember, Conway, if this picture is to go on, I will not have you 
remaining here after the work is done. Will you remember that ? " 
And she held him by the hand while he declared that he would 
remember it. 

Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was no more in love with Conway Dalrymple 
than she was in love with King Charles on horseback at Charing 
Cross. And, over and beyond the protection which came to her 
in the course of nature from unimpassioned feelings in this special 
phase of her life, and indeed, I may say, in every phase of her life, 
it must be acknowledged on her behalf that she did enjoy that pro- 
tection which comes from what we call principle, though the principle 

JAEL, 335 

was not perhaps very high of its kind. Madalina Deniolines had 
been right when she talked of her friend Maria's principles. Dobbs 
Broughton had been so far lucky in that jump in the dark which he 
had made in taking a wife to himself, that he had not fallen upon a 
really vicious woman, or upon a woman of strong feeling. If it had 
come to be the lot of Mrs. Dobbs Broughton to have six hours' work to 
do every day of her life, I think that the work would have been done 
badly, but that it would have kept her free from all danger. As it was 
she had nothing to do. She had no child. She was not given to 
much reading. She could not sit with a needle in her hand all day. 
She had no aptitude for May meetings, or the excitement of charitable 
good works. Life with her was very dull, and she found no amuse- 
ment within her reach so easy and so pleasant as the amusement of 
pretending to be in love. If all that she did and all that she said could 
only have been taken for its worth and for nothing more, by the different 
persons concerned, there was very little in it to flatter Mr. Dalrymple 
or to give cause for tribulation to Mr. Broughton. She probably cared 
but little for either of them. She was one of those women to whom it 
is not given by nature to care very much for anybody. But, of the two, 
she certainly cared the most for Mr. Dobbs Broughton, because 
Mr. Dobbs Broughton belonged to her. As to leaving Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton' s house, and putting herself into the hands of another 
man, no Imogen of a wife was ever less likely to take a step so 
wicked, so dangerous, and so generally disagreeable to all the parties 

But Conway Dalrymple, though now and again he had got a side 
glance at her true character with clear-seeing eyes, did allow himself 
to be flattered and deceived. He knew that she was foolish and igno- 
rant, and that she often talked wonderful nonsense. He knew also that 
she was continually contradicting herself, : as when she would strenu- 
ously beg him to leave her, while she would continue to talk to him in 
a strain that prevented the possibility of his going. But, nevertheless, 
he was flattered, and he did believe that she loved him. As to his love 
for her, he knew very well that it amounted to nothing. Now and 
again, perhaps twice a week, if he saw her as often, he would say some- 
thing which would imply a declaration of affection. He felt that as 
much as that was expected from him, and that he ought not to hope tc 
get off cheaper. And now that this little play was going on about Miss 
Van Siever, he did think that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was doing her very 
best to overcome an unfortunate attachment. It is so gratifying to a 
young man's feelings to suppose that another man's wife has conceived 


an unfortunate attachment for him ! Conway Dalryrnple ought not to 
have been fooled by such a woman ; but I fear that he was fooled 
by her. 

As he returned home to-day from Mrs. Broughton's house to his 
own lodgings he rambled out for a while into Kensington Gardens, and 
thought of his position seriously. "I don't see why I should not 
marry her," he said to himself, thinking of course of Miss Van Siever. 
"If Maria is not in earnest it is not my fault. And it would be my 
wish that she should be in earnest. If I suppose her to be so, and take 
her at her word, she can have no right to quarrel with me. Poor 
Maria ! at any rate it will be better for her, for no good can come of 
this kind of thing. And, by heavens; with a woman like that, of strong 
feelings, one never knows what may happen." And then he thought 
of the condition he would be in, if he were to find her some fine day in 
his own rooms, and if she were to tell him that she could not go home 
again, and that she meant to remain with him ! 

In the meantime Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had gone down into her 
own drawing-room, had tucked herself up on the sofa, and had fallen 
fast asleep. 



OHN EAMES sat at his office 
on the day after his return 
to London, and answered the 
various letters which he had 
found waiting for him at his 
lodgings on the previous even- 
ing. To Miss Demolines he 
had already written from his 
club, a single line, which he 
considered to be appropriate 
to the mysterious necessities 
of the occasion. " I will 
be with you at a quarter to 
six to-morrow. J. E. Just 
returned." There was not 
another word ; and as he 
scrawled it at one of the club 
tables while two or three men 
were talking to him, he felt rather proud of his correspondence. 
"It was capital fun," he said; "and after all," the "all" on this 
occasion being Lily Dale, and the sadness of his disappointment at 
Allington, " after all, let a fellow be ever so down in the mouth, a 
little amusement should do him good." And he reflected further that 
the more a fellow be " down in the mouth," the more good the amuse- 
ment would do him. He sent off his note, therefore, with some little 
inward rejoicing, and a word or two also of spoken rejoicing. " What 
fun women are sometimes," he said to one of his friends, a friend 
with whom he was very intimate, calling him always Fred, and slapping 
his back, but whom he never by any chance saw out of his club. 
" What's up now, Johnny ? Some good fortune ? " 
" Good fortune ; no. I never have good fortunes of that kind. 
But I've got hold of a young woman, or rather a young woman has 
got hold of me, who insists on having a mystery with me. In the 
mystery itself there is not the slightest interest. But the mysteriousness 
of it is charming. I have just written to her three words to settle an 
xv. 9 


appointment for to-niorrow. We don't sign our names lest the Post- 
master-General should find out all about it." 

"Is she pretty?" 

" Well; she isn't ugly. She has just enough of good looks to 
make the sort of thing pass off pleasantly. A mystery with a down- 
right ugly young woman would be unpleasant." 

After this fashion the note from Miss Demolines had been received, 
and answered at once, but the other letters remained in his pocket till 
he reached his office on the following morning. Sir Baffle had begged 
him to be there at half-past nine. This he had sworn he would not do; 
but he did seat himself in his room at ten minutes before ten, finding 
of course the whole building untenanted at that early hour, that 
unearthly hour, as Johnny called it himself. "I shouldn't wonder if 
he really is here this morning," Johnny said, as he entered the building, 
'just that he may have an opportunity of jumping on me." But Sir 
Baffle was not there, and then Johnny began to abuse Sir Baffle. " If 
ever I come here early to meet him again, because he says he means to 

be here himself, I hope I may be blessed." On that especial 

morning it was twelve before Sir Baffle made his appearance, and 
Johnny avenged himself, I regret to have to tell it, by a fib. That 
Sir Baffle fibbed first, was no valid excuse whatever for Eames. 

" I've been at it ever since six o'clock," said Sir Baffle. 

" At what ? " said Johnny. 

" Work, to be sure ; and very hard work too. I believe the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer thinks that he can call upon me to any 
extent that he pleases ; just any extent that he pleases. He doesn't 
give me credit for a desire to have a single hour to myself." 

" What would he do, Sir Baffle, if you were to get ill, or wear your- 
self out ? " 

" He knows I'm not one of the wearing-out sort. You got my note 
last night?" 

" Yes ; I got your note." 

" I'm sorry that I troubled you ; but I couldn't help it. I didn't 
expect to get a box full of papers at eleven o'clock last night." 

" You didn't put me out, Sir Baffle ; I happened to have business 
of my own which prevented the possibility of my being here early." 

This was the way in which John Eames avenged himself. Sir Baffle 
turned his face upon his private secretary, and his face was very black. 
Johnny bore the gaze without dropping an eyelid. " I'm not going to 
stand it, and he may as well know that at once," Johnny said to one 
of his friends in the office afterwards. . " If he ever wants any thing 
really done, I'll do it ; though it should take me twelve hours at a 


stretch. But I'm not going to pretend to believe all the lies he tells me 
about the Chancellor of the Exchequer. If that is to be part of the 
private secretary's business, he had better get somebody else." But 
now Sir Raffle was very angry, and his countenance was full of wrath as 
he looked down upon his subordinate minister. " If I had come here, 
Mr. Eames, and had found you absent, I should have been very much 
annoyed, veiy much annoyed indeed, after having written as I did." 

" You would have found me absent at the hour you named. As I 
wasn't here then, I think it's only fair to say so." 

" I'm afraid you begrudge your time to the sendee, Mr. Eames." 
11 1 do begrudge it when the service doesn't want it." 
" At your age, Mr. Eames, that's not for you to judge. If I had 
acted in that way when I was young I should never have filled the 
position I now hold. I always remembered in those days that as I was 
the hand and not the head, I was bound to hold myself in readiness 
whether work might be required from me or not." 

"If I'm wanted as hand now, Sir Raffle, I'm ready." 
" That's all very well ; but why were you not here at the hour 
I named ? " 

" Well, Sir Raffle, I cannot say that the Chancellor of the Exchequer 
detained me ; but there was business. As I've been here for the last 
two hours, I am happy to think that in this instance the public service 
will not have suffered from my disobedience." 

Sir Raffle was still standing with his hat on, and with his back to 
the fire, and his countenance was full of wrath. It was on his tongue 
to tell Johnny that he had better return to his former work in the 
outer office. He greatly wanted the comfort of a private secretary who 
would believe in him or at least pretend to believe in him. There 
are men who, though they have not sense enough to be true, have 
nevertheless sense enough to know that they cannot expect to be 
really believed in by those who are near enough to them to know them. 
Sir Raffle Buffle was such a one. He would have greatly delighted in 
the services of some one who would trust him implicitly, of some young 
man who would really believe all that he said of himself and of the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer ; but he was wise enough to perceive that 
no such young man was to be had ; or that any such young man, could 
such a one be found, would be absolutely useless for any purposes of 
work. He knew himself to be a liar whom nobody trusted. And he 
knew himself also to be a bully, though he could not think so low 
of himself as to believe that he was a bully whom nobody feared. A 
private secretary was at the least bound to pretend to believe in him. 
There is a decency in such things, and that decency John Eames did 

G G 2 


not observe. He thought that he must get rid of John Eames, in 
spite of certain attractions which belonged to Johnny's appearance 
and general manners, and social standing, and reputed wealth. But it 
would not be wise to punish a man on the spot for breaking an appoint- 
ment which he himself had not kept, and therefore he would wait for 
another opportunity. "You had better go to your own room now," 
he said. " I am engaged on a matter connected with the Treasury, in 
which I will not ask for your assistance." He knew that Eames 
would not believe a word as to what he said about the Treasury, not 
even some very trifling base of truth which did exist ; but the boast 
gave him an opportunity of putting an end to the interview after his 
own fashion. Then John Eames went to his own room and answered 
the letters which he had in his pocket. 

To the club dinner he would not go. "What's the use of paying 
two guineas for a dinner with fellows you see every day of your life ? ' ' 
he said. To Lady (rlencora's he would go, and he wrote a line to his 
friend Dalryrnple proposing that they should go together. And he 
would dine with his cousin Toogood in Tavistock Square. " One 
meets the queerest people in the world there," he said ; " but Tommy 
Toogood is such a good fellow himself ! " After that he had his lunch. 
Then he read the paper, and before he went awa}^ he wrote a dozen 
or two of private notes, presenting Sir Kame's compliments right and 
left, and giving in no one note a single word of information that could 
be of any use to any person. Having thus earned his salary by half- 
past four o'clock he got into a hansom cab and had himself driven to 
Porchester Terrace. Miss Demolines was at home, of course, and he 
soon found himself closeted with that interesting young woman. 

" I thought you never would have come." These were the first 
words she spoke. 

" My dear Miss Demolines, 3-011 must net forget that I have my 
bread to earn." 

" Fiddlestick bread ! As if I didn't know that you can get away 
from your office when you choose." 

" But, indeed, I cannot." 

" What is there to prevent you, Mr. Eames ? " 

" I'm not tied up like a dog, certainly ; but who do you suppose will 
do my work if I do not do it myself ? It is a fact, though the world 
does not believe it, that men in public offices have got something to do." 

11 Now you are laughing at me, I know ; but you are welcome, if 
you like it. It's the way of the world just at present that ladies 
should submit to that sort of thing from gentlemen." 

" What sort of thing, Miss Demolines ? " 


" Chaff, as you call it. Courtesy is out of fashion, and gallantry 
has come to signify quite a different kind of thing from ^ what it 
used to do." 

1 'The Sir Charles Grandison business is done and gone. That's 
what you mean, I suppose ? Don't you think we should find it very 
heavy if we tried to get it back again ? " 

" I'm not going to ask you to be a Sir Charles Grandison, Mr. 
Eames. But never mind all that now. Do you know that that girl 
has absolutely had her first sitting for the picture ? " 

" Has she, indeed ? " 

" She has. You may take my word for it. I know it as a fact. 
What a fool that young man is ! " 

" Which young man ? " 

" Which young man ! Conway Dalrymple to be sure. Artists 
are always weak. Of all men in the world they are the most subject 
to flattery from women ; and we all know that Conway Dalryrnple is 
very vain." 

" Upon my word I didn't know it," said Johnny. 

" Yes, you do. You must know it. When a man goes about in 
a purple velvet coat of course he is vain." 

" I certainly cannot defend a purple velvet coat." 

" That is what he wore when this girl sat to him this morning." 

" This morning was it ? " 

" Yes ; this morning. They little think that they can do nothing 
without my knowing it. He was there for nearly four hours, and she 
was dressed up in a white robe as Jael, with a turban on her head. Jael, 
indeed ! I call it very improper, and I am quite astonished that Maria 
Clutterbuck should have lent herself to such a piece of work. That 
Maria was never very wise, of course we all know ; but I thought that she 
had principle enough to have kept her from this kind of thing." 

" It's her fevered existence," said Johnny. 

" That is just it. She must have excitement. It is like dram- 
drinking. And then, you know, they are always living in the crater 
of a volcano." 

" Who are living in the crater of a volcano ? " 

" The Dobbs Broughtons are. Of course they are. There is no 
saying what day a smash may come. These City people get so used 
to it that they enjoy it. The risk is every thing to them." 

" They like to have a little certainty behind the risk, I fane} 7 ." 

" I'm afraid there is very little that's certain with Dobbs Broughton. 
But about this picture, Mr. Eames. I look to you to assist me there. 
It must be put a stop to. As to that I am determined. It must be 


put a stop to." And as Miss Demolines repeated these last words 
with tremendous emphasis she leant with both her elbows on a little 
table that stood between her and her visitor, and looked with all her eyes 
into his face. "I do hope that you agree with me in that," said she. 

" Upon my word I do not see the harm of the picture," said he. 

" You do not ? " 

" Indeed, no. Why should not Dalryrnple paint Miss Van Siever 
as well as any other lady ? It is his special business to paint ladies." 

" Look here, Mr. Eames. " And now Miss Demolines, as she 

spoke, drew her own seat closer to that of her companion and pushed 
away the little table. " Do you suppose that Conway Dalrymple, in the 
usual way of his business, paints pictures of young ladies, of which 
their mothers know nothing ? Do you suppose that he paints them in 
ladies' rooms without their husbands' knowledge ? And in the common 
way of his business does he not expect to be paid for his pictures ? " 

" But what is all that to you and me, Miss Demolines ? " 

"Is the welfare of your friend nothing to you? Would you like 
to see him become the victim of the artifice of such a girl as Clara 
Yan Siever ? " 

" Upon my word I think he is very well able to take care of himself." 

" And would you wish to see that poor creature's domestic hearth 
ruined and broken up ? " 

" Which poor creature ? " 

"Dobbs Broughton, to be sure." 

" I can't pretend that I care very much for Dobbs Broughton," said 
John Earnes ; " and you see I know so little about his domestic hearth." 

" Oh, Mr. Eames ! " 

" Besides, her principles will pull her through. You told me 
yourself that Mrs. Broughton has high principles." 

" God forbid that I should say a word against Maria Clutterbuck," 
said Miss Demolines, fervently. " Maria Clutterbuck was my early 
Mend, and though words have been spoken which never should have 
been spoken, and though things have been done which never should 
have been even dreamed of, still I will not desert Maria Clutterbuck in 
her hour of need. No, never ! " 

" I'm sure you're what one may call a trump to your friends, Miss 

" I have always endeavoured to be so, and always shall. You will 
find me so ; that is if you and I ever become intimate enough to feel 
that sort of friendship." 

" There's nothing on earth I should like better," said Johnny. As 
soon as the words were out of his mouth he felt ashamed of himself. 


He knew that he did not in truth desire the friendship of Miss Demo- 
lines, and that any friendship with such a one would mean something 
different from friendship, something that would be an injury to Lily 
Dale. A week had hardly passed since he had sworn a life's constancy 
to Lily Dale, had sworn it, not to her only, but to himself ; and now 
he was giving way to a flirtation with this woman, not because he liked 
it himself, but because he was too weak to keep out of it. 

" If that is true ," said Miss Demolines. 

" Oh, yes ; it's quite true," said Johnny. 

" Then you must earn my friendship by doing what I ask of you. 
That picture must not be painted. You must tell Conway Dalrymple 
as his friend that he must cease to carry on such an intrigue in another 
man's house." 

" You would hardly call painting a picture an intrigue ; would you ? " 

" Certainly I would when it's kept a secret from the husband by the 
wife, and from the mother by the daughter. If it cannot be stopped in 
any other way, I must tell Mrs. Van Siever ; I must, indeed. I have 
such an abhorrence of the old woman, that I could not bring myself to 
speak to her, but I should write to her. That's what I should do." 

"But what's the reason? You might as well tell me the real 
reason." Had Miss Demolines been christened Mary, or Fanny, or 
Jane, I think that John Eames would now have called her by either 
of those names ; but Madalina was such a mouthful that he could not 
bring himself to use it at once. He had heard that among her intimates 
she was called Maddy. He had an idea that he had heard Dalrymple 
in old times talk of her as Maddy Mullins, and just at this moment 
the idea was not pleasant to him ; at any rate he could not call her 
Maddy as yet. "How am I to help you," he said, "unless I know 
all about it ? " 

"I hate that girl like poison!" said Miss Dernolines, confiden- 
tially, drawing herself very near to Johnny as she spoke. 

" But what has she done ? " 

" What has she done ? I can't tell you what she has done. I 
could not demean myself by repeating it. Of course we all know what 
she wants. She wants to catch Conway Dalrymple. That's as plain 
as anything can be. Not that I care about that." 
" Of course not," said Johnny. 

"Not in the least. It's nothing to me. I have known Mr. Dal- 
rymple no doubt, for a year or two, and I should be sorry to see a 
young man who has his good points sacrificed in that sort of way. But 
it is mere acquaintance between Mr. Dalrymple and me, and of course 
I cannot interfere." 


" She'll have a lot of money, you know." 

" He thinks so ; does he ? I suppose that is what Maria has told 
him. Oh, Mr. Eames, you don't know the meanness of women ; you 
don't, indeed. Men are so much more noble." 

" Are they, do you think ? " 

" Than some women. I see women doing things that really disgust 
me ; I do, indeed ; things that I wouldn't do myself, were it ever so ; 
striving to catch men in every possible way, and for such purposes ! 
I wouldn't have believed it of Maria Clutterbuck. I wouldn't indeed. 
However, I will never say a word against her, because she has been 
my friend. Nothing shall ever induce me." 

John Eames before he left Porchester Terrace, had at last suc- 
ceeded in calling his fair friend Madalina, and had promised that he 
would endeavour to open the artist's eyes to the folly of painting his 
picture in Broughton's house without Broughton's knowledge, 



A DAY 01' two after the interview which was described in the last chapter 
John Eames dined with his uncle Mr. Thomas Toogood, in Tavistock 
Square. He was in the habit of doing this about once a month, and 
was a great favourite both with his cousins and with their mother. 
Mr. Toogood did not give dinner-parties ; always begging those whom 
he asked to enjoy his hospitality, to take pot luck, and telling young 
men whom he could treat with familiarity, such as his nephew, that 
if they wanted to be regaled a la Russe they must not come to number 
75, Tavistock Square. " A leg of mutton and trimmings ; that will be 
about the outside of it," he would say ; but he would add in a whisper, 
" and a glass of port such as you don't get every day of your life." 
Polly and Lucy Toogood were pretty girls, and merry withal, and 
certain young men were well contented to accept the attorney's invita- 
tions, whether attracted by the promised leg of mutton, or the port 
wine, or the young ladies, I will not attempt to say. But it had so 
happened that one young man, a clerk from John Eames' office, had 
partaken so often of the pot luck and port wine that Polly Toogood had 
conquered him by her charms, and he was now a slave, waiting an 
appropriate time for matrimonial sacrifice. William Summerkin was 
the young man's name ; and as it was known that Mr. Summerkin was 
to inherit a fortune amounting to five thousand pounds from his 


maiden aunt, it was considered that Polly Toogood was not doing 
amiss. "I'll give you three hundred pounds, my boy, just to put a 
few sheets on the beds," said Toogood the father, " and when the old 
birds are both dead she'll have a thousand pounds out of the nest. 
That's the extent of Polly's fortune ; so now you know." Summerkin 
was, however, quite contented to have his own money settled on his 
darling Polly, and the whole thing was looked at with pleasant and 
propitious eyes by the Toogood connection. 

When John Eames entered the drawing-room Summerkin and 
Polly were already there. Summerkin blushed up to his eyes, of 
course, but Polly sat as demurely as though she had been accustomed 
to having lovers all her life. " Mamma will be down almost immedi- 
ately, John," said Polly as soon as the first greetings were over, " and 
papa has come in, I know." 

" Summerkin," said Johnny, " Im afraid you left the office before 
four o'clock." 

" No, I did not," said Summerkin. " I deny it." 

" Polly," said her cousin, " you should keep him in better order. 
He will certainly come to grief if he goes on like this. I suppose you 
could do without him for half an hour." 

" I don't want him, I can assure you," said Polly. 

" I have only been here just five minutes," said Summerkin, " and 
I came because Mrs. Toogood asked me to do a commission." 

" That's civil to you, Polly," said John. 

"It's quite as civil as I wish him to be," said Polly. "And as 
for you, John, everybody knows that you're a goose, and that you 
always were a goose. Isn't he always doing foolish things at the office, 
William ? " But as John Eaines was rather a great man at the Income- 
tax Office, Summerkin would not fall into his sweetheart's joke on this 
subject, finding it easier and perhaps safer to twiddle the bodkins in 
Polly's work-basket. Then Toogood and Mrs. Toogood entered the 
room together, and the lovers were able to be alone again during the 
general greeting with which Johnny was welcomed. 

"You don't know the Silverbridge people, do you?" asked 
Mr. Toogood. Eames said that he did not. He had been at Silver- 
bridge more than once, but did not know very much of the Silver- 
bridgians. " Because Walker is coming to dine here. Walker is the 
leading man in Silverbridge." 

"And what is Walker; besides being leading man in Silver- 
bridge ? " 

" He's a lawyer. Walker and Winthrop. Everybody knows Walker 
in Barsetshire. I've been down at Barchester since I saw you." 


" Have you indeed ? " said Johnny. 

" And I'll tell you what I've been about. You know Mr. Crawley ; 
don't you ? " 

"The Hogglestock clergyman that has come to grief? I don't 
know him personally. He's a sort of cousin by marriage, you know." 

" Of course he is," said Mr. Toogood. "His wife is my first- 
cousin, and your mother's first-cousin. He came here to me the other 
day ;-. or rather to the shop. I had never seen the man before in my 
life, and a very queer fellow he is too. He came to me about this 
trouble of his, and of course I must do what I can for him. I got 
myself introduced to Walker, who has the management of the prosecu- 
tion, and I asked him to come here and dine to-day." 

" And what sort of fellow did you find Crawley, uncle Tom ? " 

" Such a queer fish ; so unlike anybody else in the world ! " 

" But I suppose he did take the money ? " said Johnny. 

" I don't know what to say about it. I don't indeed. If he took 
it he didn't mean to steal it. I'm as sure that man didn't mean to steal 
twenty pounds as I ever could be of anything. Perhaps I shall get 
something about it out of "Walker after dinner." Then Mr. Walker 
entered the room. " This is very kind of you, Mr. Walker ; very 
indeed. I take it quite as a compliment, your coming in in this sort of 
way. It ; s just pot luck, you know, and nothing else." Mr. Walker of 
course assured his host that he was delighted. " Just a leg of mutton 
and a bottle of old port, Mr. Walker," continued Toogood. " We never 
get beyond that in the way of dinner-giving ; do we, Maria ? " 

But Maria was at this moment descanting on the good luck of the 
family to her nephew, and on one special piece of good luck which 
had just occurred. Mr. Smnrnerkin's maiden aunt had declared her 
intention of giving up the fortune to the young people at once. She 
had enough to live upon, she said, -and would therefore make two 
lovers happy. " And they're to be married on the first of May," said 
Lucy, that Lucy of whom her father had boasted to Mr. Crawley that 
she knew Byron by heart, " and won't that be jolly? Mamma is 
going out to look for a house for them to-morrow. Fancy Polly with a 
house of her own ! Won't it be stunning ? I wish you were going to 
be married too, Johnny." 

" Don't be a fool, Lucy." 

" Of course I know that you are in love. I hope J T OU are not 
going to give over being in love, Johnny, because it is such fun." 

"Wait till you're caught yourself, my girl." 

" I don't mean to be caught till some great swell conies this way. 
And as great swells never do come into Tavistock Square I shan't have 


a chance. I'll tell you what I would like ; I'd like to have a Corsair, 
or else a Giaour ; I think a Giaour would be nicest. Only a Giaour 
wouldn't be a Giaour here, you know. Fancy a lover ' Who thundering 
comes on blackest steed, With slackened bit and hoof of speed.' Were 
not those the days to live in ! But all that is over now, you know, and 
young people take houses in Woburn Place, instead of being locked up, 
or drowned, or married to a hideous monster behind a veil. I suppose 
it's better as it is, for some reasons.'' 

" I think it must be more jolly, as you call it, Lucy." 

"I'm not quite sure. I know I'd go back and be Medora, if I 
could. Mamma is always telling Polly that she must be careful about 
William's dinner. But Conrad didn't care for his dinner. ' Light toil ! 
to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! See, I have plucked the fruit that 
promised best.' " 

" And how often do you think Conrad got drunk ? " 

' ' I don't think he got drunk at all. There is no reason why he 
should, any more than William. Come along, and take me down to 
dinner. After all, papa's leg of mutton is better than Medora's apples, 
when one is as hungry as I am." 

The leg of mutton on this occasion consisted of soup, fish, and a 
bit of roast beef, and a couple of boiled fowls. " If I had only two 
children instead of twelve, Mr. Walker," said the host, "I'd give you 
a dinner a la Russe." 

"I don't begrudge Mrs. Toogood a single arrow in her quiver on 
that score," said Mr. Walker. 

"People are getting to be so luxurious that one can't live up to 
them at all," said Mrs. Toogood. " We dined out here with some new 
comers in the square only last week. We had asked them before, and 
they came quite in a quiet way, just like this ; and when we got there 
we found they'd four kinds of ices after dinner ! " 

"And not a morsel of food on the table fit to eat," said Toogood. 
"I never was so poisoned in my life. As for soup, it was just the 
washings of the pastrycook's kettle next door." 

"And how is one to live with such people, Mr. Walker?" con- 
tinued Mrs. Toogood. " Of course we can't ask them back again. We 
can't give them four kinds of ices." 

" But would that be necessary ? Perhaps they haven't got twelve 

" They haven't got any," said Toogood, triumphing; "not a chick 
belonging to them. But you see one must do as other people do. I 
hate anything grand. I wouldn't want more than this for myself, if 
bank-notes were as plenty as curl-papers." 


" Nobody has any curl-papers now, papa," said Lucy. 

"But I can't bear to be outdone," said Mr. Toogood. " I think 
it's very unpleasant, people living in that sort of way. It's all very well 
telling me that I needn't live so too ; and of course I don't. I can't 
afford to have four men in from the confectioner's, dressed a sight 
better than myself, at ten shillings a head. I can't afford it, and I 
don't do it. But the worst of it is that I suifer because other people do 
it. It stands to reason that I must either be driven along with the 
crowd, or else be left behind. Now, I don't like either. And what's 
the end of it ? Why, I'm half earned away and half left behind." 

" Upon my word, papa, I don't think you're earned away at all," 
said Lucy. 

" Yes, I am ; and I'm ashamed of myself. Mr. Walker, I don't 
dare to ask you to drink a glass of wine with me in my own house, 
that's what I don't, because it's the proper thing for you to wait 
till somebody brings it you, and then to drink it by yourself. There 
is no knowing whether I mightn't offend you." And Mr. Toogood 
as he spoke grasped the decanter at his elbow. Mr. Walker grasped 
another at his elbow, and the two attorneys took their glass of wine 

" A very queer case this is of my cousin Crawley's," said Toogood 
to Walker, when the ladies had left the dining-room. 

" A most distressing case. I never knew anything so much talked 
of in our part of the country." 

" He can't have been a popular man, I should say ?" 

" No ; not popular, not in the ordinary way ; anything but that. 
Nobody knew him personally before this matter came up." 

" But a good clergyman, probably? I'm interested in the case, of 
course, as his wife is my first-cousin. You will understand, however, 
that I know nothing of him. My father tried to be civil to him once, 
but Crawley wouldn't have it at all. We all thought he was mad then. 
I suppose he has done his duty in his parish ?" 

" He has quarrelled with the bishop, you know, out and out." 

" Has he, indeed? But Tin not sure that I think so very much 
about bishops, Mr. Walker." 

" That depends very much on the particular bishop. Some people 
say durs isn't all that a bishop ought to be, while others are very fond 
of him." 

"And Mr. Crawley belongs to the former set; that's all?" said 
Mr. Toogood. 

" No, Mr. Toogood; that isn't all. The worst of your cousin is 
that he has an aptitude to quarrel with everybody. He is one of those 


men who always think themselves to be ill-used. Now our dean, 
Dr. Arabin, has been his very old friend, and as far as I can learn, a 
very good .friend ; but it seems that Mr. Crawley has done his best to 
quarrel with him too." 

" He spoke of the dean in the highest terms to me." 

" He may do that, and yet quarrel with him. He'd quarrel with 
his own right hand, if he had nothing else to quarrel with. That 
makes the difficulty, you see. He'll take nobody's advice. He thinks 
that we're all against him.' 

" I suppose the world has been heavy on him, Mr. Walker ? " 

" The world has been very heavy on him," said John Earnes, who had 
now been left free to join the conversation, Mr. Sumrnerkin having gone 
away to his lady-love. " You must not judge him as you do other men." 

" That is just it," said Mr. Walker. " And to what result will that 
bring us ? " 

" That we ought to stretch a point in his favour," said Toogood. 

'But why?" asked the attorney from Silverbridge. "What do 
we mean when we say that one man isn't to be trusted as another ? Wo 
simply imply that he is not what we call responsible." 

" And I don't think Mr. Crawley is responsible," said Johnny. 

" Then how can he be fit to have charge of a parish ? " said Mr. 
Walker. " You see where the difficulty is. How it embarrasses one 
all round. The amount of evidence as to the cheque is, I think, sufficient 
to get a verdict in an ordinary case, and the Crown has no alterna- 
tive but so to treat it. Then his friends come forward, and from 
sympathy with his sufferings, I desire to be ranked among the number, 
and say, 'Ah, but you should spare this man, because he is not 
responsible.' Were he one who filled no position requiring special re- 
sponsibility, that might be very well. His friends might undertake to 
look after him, and the prosecution might perhaps be smothered. But 
Mr. Crawley holds a living, and if he escape he will be triumphant, 
especially triumphant over the bishop. Now, if he has really taken this 
money, and if his only excuse be that he did not know when he took it 
whether he was stealing or whether he was not, for the sake of justice 
that ought not to be allowed." So spoke Mr. Walker. 

" You think he certainly did steal the money ? " said Johnny. 

" You have heard the evidence, no doubt ? " said Mr. Walker. 

" I don't feel quite sure about it, yet," said Mr. Toogood. 

" Quite sure of what ? " said Mr. Walker. 

" That the cheque was dropped in his house." 

" It was at any rate traced to his hands." 

" I have no doubt about that," said Toogood. 


" And he can't account for it," said Walker. 

" A man isn't bound to show where he got his money," said Johnny. 
" Suppose that sovereign is marked," and Johnny produced a coin 
from his pocket, " and I don't know but what it is ; and suppose it is 
proved to have belonged to some one who lost it, and then to be traced 
to my hands, how am I to say where I got it ? If I were asked, I 
should simply decline to answer." 

" But a cheque is not a sovereign, Mr. Eames," said Walker. " It 
is presumed that a man can account for the possession of a cheque. 
It may be that a man should have a cheque in his possession and not 
be able to account for it, and should yet be open to no grave suspicion. 
In such a case a jury has to judge. Here is the feet : that Mr. Crawley 
has the cheque, and brings it into use some considerable time after it 
is drawn ; and the additional fact that the drawer of the cheque had 
lost it, as he thought, in Mr. Crawley's house, and had looked for it 
there, soon after it was drawn, and long before it was paid. A jury must 
judge ; but, as a lawyer, I should say that the burden of disproof lies 
with Mr. Crawley." 

"Did you find out anything, Mr. Walker," said Toogood, "about 
the man who drove Mr. Soames that day ? " 

" No, nothing." 

" The trap was from < The Dragon ' at Barchester, I think ? " 

" Yes, from < The Dragon of Wantly.' " 

" A respectable sort of house ? " 

" Pretty well for that, I believe. I've heard that the people are 
poor," said Mr. Walker. ; 

" Somebody told me that they'd had a queer lot about the house, 
and that three or four of them left just then. I think I heard that two 
or three men from the place went to New Zealand together. It just 
came out in conversation while I was in the inn-yard." 

" I have never heard anything of it," said Mr. Walker. 

" I don't say that it can help us." 

" I don't see that it can," said Mr. Walker. 

After that there was a pause, and Mr. Toogood pushed about the 
old port, and made some very stinging remarks as to the claret- 
drinking propensities of the age. " Gladstone claret the most of it is, 
I fancy," said Mr. Toogood. " I find that port wine which my father 
bought in the wood five-and-twenty years ago is good enough for me." 
Mr. Walker said that it was quite good enough for him, almost too 
good, and that he thought that he had had enough of it. The host 
threatened another bottle, and was up to draw the cork, rather to the 
satisfaction of John Eames, who liked his uncle's port, but Mr. 


Walker stopped him. " Not a drop more for me," he said. " You are 
quite sure ? " " Quite sure." And Mr. Walker moved towards the door. 

" It's a great pity, Mr. Walker," said Toogood, going back to the 
old subject, " that this dean and his wife should be away." 

" I understand that they will both be home before the trial," said 
Mr. Walker. 

" Yes, but you know how very important it is to learn beforehand 
exactly what your witnesses can prove and what they can't prove. And 
moreover, though neither the dean nor his wife might perhaps be able 
to tell us anything themselves, they might help to put us on the proper 
scent. I think I'll send somebody after them. I think I will 

" It would be a heavy expense, Mr. Toogood." 

" Yes," said Toogood, mournfully, thinking of the twelve children ; 
" it would be a heavy expense. But I never like to stick at a thing 
when it ought to be done. I think I shall send a fellow after them." 

"I'll go," said Johnny 

" How can you go ? " 

" I'll make old Snuffle give me leave." 

" But will that lessen the expense ? " said Mr. Walker. 

" Well, yes, I think it will," said John, modestly. 

" My nephew is a rich man, Mr. Walker," said Toogood. 

" That alters the case," said Mr. Walker. And thus, before they 
left the dining-room, it was settled that John Eames should be taught 
his lesson and should seek both Mrs. Arabin and Dr. Arabin on their 



ON the morning after his return from London Mr. Crawley showed 
symptoms of great fatigue, and his wife implored him to remain in bed. 
But this he would not do. He would get up, and go out down to the 
brickfields. He had specially bound himself, he said, to see that the 
duties of the parish did not suffer by being left in his hands. The 
bishop had endeavoured to place them in other hands, but he had per- 
sisted in retaining them. As he had done so he could allow no weari- 
ness of his own to interfere, and especially no weariness induced by 
labours undertaken on his own behalf. The day in the week had come 
round on which it was his wont to visit the brickmakers, and he would 
visit them. So he dragged himself out of his bed and went forth 


amidst the cold storm of a harsh wet March morning. His wife well 
knew when she heard his first word on that morning that one of those 
terrible moods had come upon him which made her doubt whether she 
ought to allow him to go anywhere alone. Latterly there had been 
some improvement in his mental health. Since the day of his 
encounter with the bishop and Mrs. Proudie, though he had been as 
stubborn as ever, he had been less apparently unhappy, less depressed 
in spirits. And the journey to London had done him good. His 
wife had congratulated herself on finding him able to set about his 
work like another man, and he himself had experienced a renewal, if 
not of hope, at any rate, of courage, which had given him a comfort 
which he had recognized. His common-sense had not been very 
striking in his interview with Mr. Toogood, but yet he had talked more 
rationally then and had given a better account of the matter in hand 
than could have been expected from him for some weeks previously. 
But now that the labour was over, a reaction had come upon him, and 
he went away from his house having hardly spoken a word to his wife 
after the speech which he made about his duty to his parish. 

I think that at this time nobody saw clearly the working of his 
mind, not even his wife, who studied it very closely, who gave him 
credit for all his high qualities, and who had gradually learned to 
acknowledge to herself that she must distrust his judgment in many 
things. She knew that he was good and yet weak, that he was afflicted 
by false pride and supported by true pride, that his intellect was still 
very bright, yet so dismally obscured on many sides as almost to justify 
people in saying that he was mad. She knew that he was almost a 
saint, and yet almost a castaway through vanity and hatred of those 
above him. But she did not know that he knew all this of himself 
also. She did not comprehend that he should be hourly telling himself 
that people were calling him mad and were so calling him with truth. 
It did not occur to her that he could see her insight into liim. She 
doubted as to the way in which he had got the cheque, never imagin- 
ing, however, that he had wilfully stolen it ; thinking that his mind 
had been so much astray as to admit of his finding it and using it with- 
out wilful guilt, thinking also, alas, that a man who could so act was 
hardly fit for such duties as those which were entrusted to him. But 
she did not dream that this was precisely his own idea of his own state and 
of his own position ; that he was always inquiring of himself whether he 
was not mad ; whether, if mad, he was not bound to lay down his office ; 
that he was ever taxing himself with improper hostility to the bishop, 
never forgetting for a moment his wrath against the bishop and the 
bishop's wife, still comforting himself with his triumph over the bishop 


and the bishop's wife, but, for all that, accusing himself of a heavy 
sin and proposing to himself to go to the palace and there humbly to 
relinquish his clerical authority. Such a course of action he was pro- 
posing to himself, but not with any realized idea that he would so act. 
He was as a man who walks along a river's bank thinking of suicide, 
calculating how best he might kill himself, whether the river does not 
offer an opportunity too good to be neglected, telling himself that for 
many reasons he had better do so, suggesting to himself that the water 
is pleasant and cool, and that his ears would soon be deaf to the harsh 
noises of the world, but yet knowing, or thinking that he knows, that 
he never will kill himself. So it was with Mr. Crawley. Though his 
imagination pictured to himself the whole scene, how he would 
humble himself to the ground as he acknowledged his unfitness, how 
he would endure the small-voiced triumph of the little bishop, how, 
from the abjectness of his own humility, even from the ground ou 
which he would be crouching, he would rebuke the loud-mouthed 
triumph of the bishop's wife ; though there was no touch wanting to 
the picture which he thus drew, he did not really propose to himself 
to commit this professional suicide. His wife, too, had considered 
whether it might be in truth becoming that he should give up his 
clerical duties, at any rate for a while ; but she had never thought that 
the idea was present to his mind also. 

Mr. Toogood had told him that people would say that he was rnad ; 
and Mr. Toogood had looked at him, when he declared for the second 
time that he had no knowledge whence the cheque had come to him, 
as though his words were to be regarded as the words of some sick 
child. "Mad! " he said to himself, as he walked home from the 
station that night. " Well ; yes ; and what if I am mad ? When I 
think of all that I have endured my wonder is that I should not have 
been mad sooner." And then he prayed, yes, prayed, that in his 
madness the Devil might not be too strong for him, and that he might 
be preserved from some terrible sin of murder or violence. What, if 
the idea should come to him in his madness that it would be well for 
him to slay his wife and his children ? Only that was wanting to 
make him of all men the most unfortunate. 

He went down among the brickmakers on the following morning, 
leaving the house almost without a morsel of food, and he remained at 
Hoggle End for the greater part of the day. There were sick persons 
there with whom he prayed, and then he sat talking with rough men 
while they ate their dinners, and he read passages from, the Bible to 
women while they washed their husbands' clothes. And for a while he 
sat with a little girl in his lap teaching the child her alphabet. If it 
xv. H u 


were possible for him lie would do lais duty. He would spare himself 
iu nothing, though he might suffer even to fainting. And on this occa- 
sion he did suffer, almost to fainting, for as he returned home in the 
afternoon he was forced to lean from time to time against the hanks on 
the road-side, while the cold sweat of weakness trickled down his face, 
in order that he might recover strength to go on a few yards. But he 
would persevere. If God would but leave to him mind enough for his 
work, he would go on. No personal suffering should deter him. He 
told himself that there had been men in the world whose sufferings 
were sharper even than his own. Of what sort had been the life of the 
man who had stood for years on the top of a pillar ? But then the man 
on the pillar had been honoured by all around him. And thus, though 
he had thought of the man on the pillar to encourage himself by 
remembering how lamentable had been that man's suffering, he came 
to reflect that after all his own sufferings were perhaps keener than 
those of the man on the pillar. 

When he reached home, he was very ill. There was no doubt 
about it then. He staggered to his arm-chair, and stared at his wife 
first, then smiled at her with a ghastly smile. He trembled all over, 
and when food was brought to him he could not eat it. Early on the 
next morning the doctor was by his bedside, and before that evening 
came he was delirious. He had been at intervals in this state for 
nearly two days, when Mrs. Crawley wrote to Grace, and though she 
had restrained herself from telling everything, she had written with 
sufficient strength to bring Grace at once to her father's bedside. 

He was not so ill when Grace arrived but that he knew her, and he 
seemed to receive some comfort from her coming. Before she had 
been in the house an hour she was reading Greek to him, and there 
was no wandering in his mind as to the due emphasis to be given to 
the plaints of the injured heroines, or as to the proper meaning of 
the choruses. And as he lay with his head half buried in the pillows, 
he shouted out long passages, lines from tragic plays by the score, and 
for a while seemed to have all the enjoyment of a dear old pleasure 
placed newly within his reach. But he tired of this after a while, and 
then, having looked round to see that his wife was not in the room, 
he began to talk of himself. 

11 So you have been at Allington, my dear ? " 

" Yes, papa." 

" Is it a pretty place ? " 

'' Yes, papa ; very pretty." 

" And they were good to you ? " 

" Yes, papa ; very good." 


" Had they heard anything there about nie ; of this trial that 
is to come on ? " 

" Yes, papa ; they had heard of it." 

" And what did they say ? You need not think that you will shock 
ine by telling me. They cannot say worse there than people have said 
here, or think worse." 

11 They don't think at all badly of you at Allington, papa." 

" But they must think badly of me if the magistrates were 
right ? " 

" They suppose that there has been a mistake ; as we all think." 

" They do not try men at the assizes for mistakes." 

"That you have been mistaken, I mean; and the magistrates 

" Both cannot have been mistaken, Grace." 

" I don't know how to explain myself, papa ; but we all know that 
it is very sad, and are quite sure that you have never meant for one 
moment to do anything that was wrong." 

" But people when they are, you know what I mean, Grace ; 
when they are not themselves, do things that are wrong without mean- 
ing it." Then he paused, while she remained standing by him with her 
hand on the back of his. She was looking at his face, which had been 
turned towards her while they were reading together, but which now 
was so far moved that she knew that his eyes could not be fixed upon 
hers. " Of course if the bishop orders it, it shall be so," he said. 
" It is quite enough for me that he is the bishop." 

" What has the bishop ordered, papa ? " 

" Nothing at all. It is she who does it. He has given no opinion 
about it. Of course not. He has none to give. It is the woman. 
You go and tell her from me that in such a matter I will not obey the 
word of any woman living. Go at once, when I tell you." 

Then she knew that her father's mind was wandering, and she 
knelt down by the bedside, still holding his hand. 

" Grace," he said. 

"Yes, papa, I am here." 

" Why do you not do what I tell you ? " And he sat upright in his 
bed. " I suppose you are afraid of the woman ? " 
" I should be afraid of her, dear papa." 

"I was not afraid of her. When she spoke to me, I would have 
nothing to say to her ; not a word ; not a word ; not a word." As he 
said this he waved his hands about. " But as for him, if it must be, 
it must. I know I'm not fit for it. Of course I am not. Who is ? 
But what has he ever done that he should be a dean ? I beat him at 


everything ; almost at everything. He got the Newdegate, and that 
was about all. Upon my word I think that was all." 

" But Dr. Arabin loves you truly, dear papa." 

" Love me ! psha ! Does he ever come here to tea, as he used to 
do ? No ! I remember buttering toast for him down on nry knees before 
the fire, because he liked it, and keeping all the cream for him. He 
should have had my heart's blood if he wanted it. But now ; look at 
his books, Grace. It's the outside of them he cares about. They are 
all gilt, but I doubt if he ever reads. As for her, I will not allow any 
woman to tell me my duty. No ; by my Maker ; not even your 
mother, who is the best of women. And as for her, with her little 
husband dangling at her apron-strings, as a call-whistle to be blown 
into when she pleases, that she should dare to teach me my duty ! 
No ! The men in the jury-box may decide it how they will. If they 
can believe a plain story, let them ! If not, let them do as they 
please. I am ready to bear it all." 

" Dear papa, you are tired. Will you not tiy to sleep ?" 

" Tell Mrs. Proudie what I say; and as for Arabin's money, I took it. 
I know I took it. What would you have had me do ? Shall I see 
them all starve ? " Then he fell back upon his bed and did sleep. 

The next day he was better, and insisted upon getting out of bed, 
and on sitting in his old arm-chair over the fire. And the Greek 
books were again had out ; and Grace, not at all unwillingly, was put 
through her facings. " If you don't take care, my dear," he said, 
"Jane will beat you yet. She understands the force of the verbs 
better than you do." 

"I am very glad that she is doing so well, papa. I am sure I 
shall not begrudge her her superiority." 

" All, but you should begrudge it her ! " Jane was sitting by at 
the time, and the two sisters were holding each other by the hand. 
" Always to be best; always to be in advance of others. That should 
be your motto." 

"But we can't both be best, papa," said Jane. 

" You can both strive to be best. But Grace has the better voice. 
I remember when I knew the whole of the Antigone by heart. You 
girls should see which can learn it first." 

" It would take such a long time," said Jane. 

" You are young, and what can you do better with your leisure 
hours ? Fie, Jane ! I did not expect that from 3-011. When I was 
learning it I had eight or nine pupils, and read an hour a day with 
each of them. But I think that nobody works now as they used to 
work then. Where is your mamma ? Tell her I think I could get 


out ab' far as Mrs. Cox's, if she would help ine to dress." Soon after 
this he was in bed again, and his head was wandering ; but still they 
knew that he was better than he had been. 

"You are more of a comfort to your papa than I can be," said 
Mrs. Crawley to her eldest daughter that night as they sat together, 
when everybody else was in bed, 

" Do not say that, mamma. Papa does not think so." 

" I cannot read Greek plays to him as you can do. I can only 
nurse him in his illness and endeavour to do my duty. Do you know, 
Grace, that I am beginning to fear that he half doubts me ? " 

" Oh, mamma ! " 

"That he half doubts me, and is half afraid of me. He does not 
think as he used to do, that I am altogether, heart and soul, on his 
side. I can see it in his eye as he watches me. He thinks that I 
am tired of him, tired of his sufferings, tired of his poverty, tired 
of the evil which men say of him. I am not sure but what he thinks 
that I suspect him." 

"Of what, mamma?" 

" Of general unfituess for the work he has to do. The feeling is 
not strong as yet, but I fear that he will teach himself to think that he 
has an enemy at his hearth, not a friend. It will be the saddest 
mistake he ever made." 

" He told me to-day that you were the best of women. Those were 
his very words." 

" Were they, niy dear ? I am glad at least that he should say so to 
you. He has been better since you came ; a great deal better. For 
one day I was frightened ; but I am sorry now that I sent for you." 

" I am so glad mamma ; so very glad." 

" You were happy there, and comfortable. And if they were glad 
to have you, why should I have brought you away ? " 

" But I was not happy ; even though they were very good to me. 
How could I be happy there when I was thinking of you and papa and 
Jane here at home ? Whatever there is here, I would sooner share it 
with you than be anywhere else, while this trouble lasts." 

" My darling ! it is a great comfort to see you again." 

" Only that I knew that one less in the house would be a saving to 
you I should not have gone. When there is unhappiness, people 
should stay together ; shouldn't they, mamma?" They were sitting 
quite close to each other, on an old sofa in a small upstairs room, 
from which a door opened into the larger chamber in which Mr. 
Crawley was lying. It had been arranged between them that on this 
night Mrs. Crawley should remain with her husband, and that Grace 


should go to her bed. It was now past one o'clock, but she was still 
there, clinging to her mother's side, with her mother's arm drawn round 
her. " Mamma," she said, when they had both been silent for some 
ten minutes, " I have got something to tell you." 

" To-night ? " 

11 Yes, mamma ; to-night, if you will let me." 

"But you promised that you would go to bed. You were up all 
last night." 

" I am not sleepy, mamma." 

" Of course you shall tell me what you please, dearest. Is it a 
secret ? Is it something I am not to repeat ? " 

"You must say how that ought to be, mamma. I shall not tell it 
to any one else." 

"Well, dear?" 

"Sit comfortably, mamma; there; like that, and let me have 
your hand. It's a terrible story to have to tell." 

" A terrible story, Grace ? " 

" I mean that you must not draw away from me. I shall want to 
feel that you are quite close to me. Mamma, while I was at Allington, 
Major Grantly came there." 

"Did he, my dear?" 

"Yes, mamma." 

" Did he know them before ? " 

"No, mamma ; not at the Small House. But he came there to 
see me. He asked me to be his wife. Don't move, mamma." 

" My darling child ! I won't move, dearest. Well ; and what did 
you say to him ? God bless him, at any rate. May God bless him, 
because he has seen with a true eye, and felt with a noble instinct. It is 
something, Grace, to have been wooed by such a man at such a time." 

" Mamma, it did make me feel proud ; it did." 

, " You had known him well before, of course ? I knew that you 
and he were friends, Grace." 

" Yes, we were friends. I always liked him. I used not to know 
what to think about him. Miss Anne Prettyman told me that it would 
be so ; and once before I thought so myself." 

" And had you made up your mind what to say to him ? " 

" Yes, I had then. But I did not say it." 

" Did not say what you had made up your mind to say ? " 

" That was before all this had happened to papa." 

" I understand you, dearest." 

" When Miss Anne Prettyman told me that I should be ready with 
my answer, and when I saw that Miss Prettyman herself used to let 



him coine to the house and seemed to wish, that I should see him when 
he came, and when he once was so very gentle and kind, and when 
he said that he wanted me to love Edith, Oh, mamma ! " 

" Yes, darling, I know. Of course you loved him." 

" Yes, mamma. And I do love him. How could one not love him ? " 

" I love him, for loving you." 

" But, mamma, one is bound not to do a harm to any one that one 
loves. So when he came to Allington I told him that I could not be 
his wife." 

"Did you, my dear? " 

" Yes ; I did. Was I not right ? Ought I to go to him to bring a 
disgrace upon all the family, just because he is so good that he asks 
me ? Shall I injure him because he wants to do me a service ? " 

"If he loves you, Grace, the sendee he will require will be your 
love in return." 

" That is all very well, mamma, in books ; but I do not believe 
it in reality. Being in love is very nice, and in poetry they make it 
out to be everything. But I do not think I should make Major Grantly 
happy if when I became his wj|e his own father and mother would 
not see him. I know I should be so wretched, myself, that I could 
not live." 

" But would it be so ? " 

" Yes ; I think it would. And the archdeacon is very rich, and 
can leave all his money away from Major Grantly if he pleases. Think 
what I should feel if I were the cause of Edith losing her fortune ! " 

" But why d6 you suppose these terrible things ? " 

" I have a reason for supposing them. This must be a secret. 
Miss Anne Prettyman wrote to me." 

" I wish Miss Anne Prettyman' s hand had been in the fire." 

"No, mamma ; no ; she was right. Would not I have wished, do 
you think, to have learned all the truth about the matter before I 
answered him ? Besides, it made no difference. I could have made 
no other answer while papa is under such a terrible ban. It is no 
time for us to think of being in love. We have got to love each other. 
Isn't it so, mamma ? " The mother did not answer in words, but 
slipping down on her knees before her child threw her arms round her 
girl's body in a close embrace. "Dear mamma; dearest mamma; 
this is what I wanted ; that you should love me ! " 

" Love you, my angel ! " 

" And trust me ; and that we should understand each other, and 
stand close by each other. We can do so much to comfort one another ; 
but we cannot comfort other people." 


"He must know that best himself, Grace; but what did he say 
more to you ? " 

" I don't think he said anything more." 

" He just left you then ? " 

" He said one thing more." 

" And what was that ? " 

" He said ; but he had no right to say it." 

" What was it, dear ? " 

" That he knew I loved him, and that therefore But, mamma, 

do not think of that. I will never be his wife, never, in opposition 
to his family." 

" But he did not take your answer ? " 

" He must take it, mamma. He shall take it. If he can be 
stubborn, so can I. If he knows how to think of me more than himself, 
I can think of him and Edith more than of myself. That is not quite 
all, mamma. Then he wrote to me. There is his letter." 

Mrs. Crawl ey read the letter. " I suppose you answered it ? " 

" Yes, I answered it. It was very bad, my letter. I should think 
after that he will never want to have Anything more to say to me. I 
tried for two days, but I could not write a nice letter." 

" But what did you say ? " 

" I don't in the least remember. It does not in the least signify 
now, but it was such a bad letter." 

" I daresay it was very nice." 

" It was terribly stiff, and all about a gentleman." 

" All about a gentleman ! What do you mean, my dear ? " 

" Gentleman is such a frightful word to have to use to a gentleman; 
but I did not know what else to say. Mamma, if you please, we won't 
talk about it ; not about the letter I mean. As for him, I'll talk about 
him for ever if you like it. I don't mean to be a bit broken-hearted." 

" It seems to me that he is a gentleman." 

" Yes, mamma, that he is ; and it is that which makes me so proud. 
When I think of it, I can hardly hold myself. But now I've told you 
everything, and I'll go away, and go to bed." 



K. TOOGOOD paid another visit 
to Barsetshire, in order that he 
might get a little further infor- 
mation which he thought would 
be necessary before despatching 
his nephew upon the traces of 
Dean Arabin and his wife. He 
went down to Barchester after 
his work was over by an even- 
ing train, and put himself up 
at " The Dragon of Wantly," 
intending to have the whole 
of the next day for his work. 
Mr. Walker had asked him to 
come and take a return pot- 
luck dinner with Mrs. Walker 
at Silverbridge ; and this he 
zr, had said that he would do. 
After having " rummaged about for tidings " in Barchester, as he called 
it, he would take the train for Silverbridge, and would get back to town 
in time for business on the third day. " One day won't be much, you 
know," he said to his partner, as he made half an apology for absenting 
himself on business which was not to be in any degree remunerative. 
" That sort of thing is very well when one does it without any expense," 
said Crump. "So it is," said Toogood; "and the expense won't 
make it any worse." He had made up his mind, and it was not pro- 
bable that anything Mr. Crump might say would deter him. 

He saw John Eames before he started. "You'll be ready this 
day week, will you?" John Eames promised that he would. "It 
will cost you some forty pounds, I should say. By George, if you 
have to go on to Jerusalem, it will cost you more." In answer to this, 
Johnny pleaded that it would be as good as any other tour to him. 
He would see the world. "I'll tell you what," said Toogood; "I'll 
pay half. Only you mustn't tell Crump. And it will be quite as well 



not to tell Maria." But Johnny would hear nothing of this scheme. 
He would pay the entire cost of his own journey. He had lots of 
money, he said, and would like nothing better. "Then I'll run down," 
said Toogood, and " rummage up what tidings I can. As for writing to 
the dean, what's the good of writing to a man when you don't know 
where he is ? Business letters always lie at hotels for two months, 
and then come back with double postage. From all I can hear, you'll 
stumble on her before you find him. If we do nothing else but bring 
him back, it will be a great thing to have the support of such a friend 
in the court. A -Barchester jury won't like to find a man guilty who is 
hand-and-glove with the dean." 

Mr. Toogood reached the " Dragon " about eleven o'clock, and 
allowed the boots to give him a pair of slippers and a candlestick. But 
he would not go to bed just at that moment. He would go into the 
coffee-room first, and have a glass of hot brandy- and- water. So the 
hot brandy- and- water was brought to him, and a cigar, and as he 
smoked and drank he conversed with the waiter. The man was a waiter 
of the ancient class, a gray-haired waiter, with seedy clothes, and a 
dirty towel under his arm ; not a dapper waiter, with black shiny hair, 
and dressed like a guest for a dinner-party. There are two distinct 
classes of waiters, and as far as I have been able to perceive, the special 
status of the waiter in question cannot be decided by observation of the 
class of waiter to which he belongs. In such a town as Barchester you 
may find the old waiter with the dirty towel in the head inn, or in the 
second-class inn, and so you may the dapper waiter. Or you may find 
both in each, and not know which is senior waiter and which junior 
waiter. But for service I always prefer the old waiter with the dirty 
towel, and I find it more easy to satisfy him in the matter of sixpences 
when my relations with the inn come to an end. 

" Have you been here long, John ? " said Mr. Toogood. 
" A goodish many years, sir." 

" So I thought, by the look of you. One can see that you belong 
in a way to the place. You do a good deal of business here, I suppose, 
at this time of the year ? " 

" Well, sir, pretty fair. The house ain't what it used to be, sir." 
" Times are bad at Barchester, are they ? " 

" I don't know much about the times. It's the people is worse 
than the times, I think. They used to like to have a little bit of 
dinner now and again at a hotel ; and a drop of something to drink 
after it." 

" And don't they like it now ? " 



" I think they like it well enough, but they don't do it. I suppose 
it's their wives as don't let 'em come out and enjoy theirselves. There 
used to be the Goose and Glee club ; that was once a month. They've 
gone and clean done away with themselves, that club has. There's old 
Bumpter in the High Street, he's the last of the old Geese. They died 
off, you see, and when Mr. Biddle died they wouldn't choose another pre- 
sident. A club for having dinner, sir, ain't nothing without a president." 

" I suppose not." 

" And there's the Freemasons. They must meet, you know, sir, 
in course, because of the dooties. But if you'll believe me, sir, they 
don't so much as wet their whistles. They don't indeed. It always 
used to be a supper, and that was once a month. Now they pays a 
rent for the use of the room ! Who is to get a living out of that, sir ? 
-not in the way of a waiter, that is." 

" If that's the way things are going on I suppose the servants leave 
their places pretty often ? " 

" I don't know about that, sir. A man may do a deal worse than 
' The Dragon of Wantly.' Them as goes away to better themselves, 
often worses themselves, as I call it. I've seen a good deal of that." 

" And you stick to the old shop ? " 

" Yes, sir ; I've been here fifteen year, I think it is. There's a 
many goes away, as doesn't go out of their own heads, you know, sir." 

" They get the sack, you mean ? " 

" There's words between them and master, or more likely, missus. 
That's where it is. Servants is so foolish. I often tell 'em how wrong 
folks are to say that soft words butter no parsnips, and hard words 
break no bones." 

" I think you've lost some of the old hands here since this time last 
year, John ? " 

" You knows the house then, sir ? " 

" Well ; I've been here before." 

''There was four of them went, I think it's just about twelve 
months back, sir." 

" There was a man in the yard I used to know, and last time I was 
down here, I found that he was gone." 

" There was one of 'em out of the yard, and two out of the house. 
Master and them had got to very high words. There was poor Scuttle, 
who had been post-boy at ' The Compasses ' before he came here." 

" He went away to New Zealand, didn't he ? " 

" B'leve he did, sir ; or to some foreign parts. And Anne, as was 
nnder- chambermaid here ; she went with him, fool as she was. They 



got tlieirselves married and went off, and he was well nigh as old as me. 
But seems he'd saved a little money, and that goes a long way with 
any girl." 

" Was he the man who drove Mr. Soanies that day the cheque was 
lost ? " Mr. Toogood asked this question perhaps a little too abruptly. 
At any rate he obtained no answer to it. The waiter said he knew 
nothing about Mr. Soanies, or the cheque, and the lawyer suspecting 
that the waiter was suspecting him, finished his brandy- and- water and 
went to bed. 

Early on the following morning he observed that he was specially 
regarded by a shabby-looking man, dressed in black, but in a black suit 
that was very old, with a red nose, whom he had seen in the hotel on the 
preceding day ; and he learned that this man was a cousin of the landlord, 
one Dan Stringer, who acted as a clerk in the hotel bar. He took 
an opportunity also of saying a word to Mr. Stringer the landlord, 
whom he found to be a somewhat forlorn and gouty individual, seated 
on cushions in a little parlour behind the bar. After breakfast he went 
out, and having twice walked round the Cathedral close and inspected 
the front of the palace and looked up at the windows of the prebendaries' 
houses, he knocked at the door of the deanery. The dean and Mrs. 
Arabin were on the Continent, he was told. Then he asked for 
Mr. Harding, having learned that Mr. Harding was Mrs. Arabin' s 
father, and that he lived at the deanery. Mr. Harding was at home, 
but was not very well, the servant said. Mr. Toogood, however, 
persevered, sending up his card, and saying that he wished to have a 
few minutes' conversation with Mr. Harding on very particular business. 
He wrote a word upon his card before giving it to the servant, " about 
Mr. Crawley." In a few minutes he was shown into the library, and 
had hardly time, while looking at the shelves, to remember what 
Mr. Crawley had said of his anger at the beautiful bindings, before an old 
man, very thin and very pale, shuffled into the room. He stooped a 
good deal, and his black clothes were very loose about his shrunken 
limbs. He was not decrepit, nor did he seem to be one who had 
advanced to extreme old age ; but yet he shuffled rather than walked, 
hardly raising his feet from the ground. Mr. Toogood, as he came 
forward to meet him, thought that he had never seen a sweeter face. 
There was very much of melancholy in it, of that soft sadness of age 
which seems to acknowledge, and in some sort to regret, the waning oil 
of life ; but the regret to be read in such faces has in it nothing of the 
bitterness of grief ; there is no repining that the end has come, but 
simply a touch of sorrow that so much that is dear must be left behind. 


Mr. Harding shook hands with his visitor, and invited him to sit down, 
and then seated himself, folding his hands together over his knees, and 
he said a few words in a very low voice as to the absence of his daughter 
and of the dean. 

" I hope you will excuse my troubling you," said Mr. Toogood. 

" It is no trouble at all, if I could be of any use. I don't know 
whether it is proper, but may I ask whether you call as, as, as a 
friend of Mr. Crawley's ? " 

" Altogether as a friend, Mr. Harding." 

" I'm glad of that ; though of course I am well aware that the 
gentlemen engaged on the prosecution must do their duty. Still, I 
don't know, somehow I would rather not hear them speak of this 
poor gentleman before the trial." 

" You know Mr. Crawley, then ? " 

" Very slightly, very slightly indeed. He is a gentleman not 
much given to social habits, and has been but seldom here. But he is 
an old friend whom my son-in-law loves dearly." 

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Mr. Harding. Perhaps before I go 
any further I ought to tell you that Mrs. Crawley and I are first- 

" Oh, indeed. Then you are a friend." 

" I never saw him in my life till a few days ago. He is very queer 
you know, very queer indeed. I'm a lawyer, Mr. Harding, practising 
in London ; an attorney, that is." At each separate announcement 
Mr. Harding bowed, and when Toogood named his special branch of 
his profession Mr. Harding bowed lower than before, as though desirous 
of showing that he had great respect for attorneys. " And of course 
I'm anxious, if only out of respect for the family, that my wife's cousin 
should pull through this little difficulty, if possible." 

" And for the sake of the poor man himself too, and for his wife, 
and his children ; and for the sake of the cloth." 

" Exactly ; taking it all together it's such a pity, you know. 
I think, Mi*. Harding, he can hardly have intended to steal the 

" I'm sure he did not." 

" It's very hard to be sure of anybody, Mr. Harding; very hard." 

" I feel quite sure that he did not. He has been a most pious, hard- 
working clergyman. I cannot bring myself to think that he is guilty. 
What does the Latin proverb say ? ' No one of a sudden becomes 
most base.' " 

"But the temptation, Mr. Harding, was very strong. He was 


awfully badgered about his debts. That butcher in Silverbridge was 
playing the mischief with him." 

'All the butchers in Barsetshire could not make an honest man 
steal money, and I think that Mr. Crawley is an honest man. You'll 
excuse me for being a little hot about one of my own order." 

"Why; he's my cousin, or rather, my wife's. But the fact is, 
Mr. Harding, we must get hold of the dean as soon as possible ; and 
I'm going to send a gentleman after him." 

" To send a gentleman after him ? " said Mr. Harding, almost in 

" Yes ; I think that will be best." 

" I'm afraid he'll have to go a long way, Mr. Toogood." 

" The dean, I'm told, is in Jerusalem." 

" I'm afraid he is, or on his journey there. He's to be there 
for the Easter week, and Sunday week will be Easter Sunday. 
But why should the gentleman want to go to Jerusalem after the 
dean ? " 

Then Mi*. Toogood explained as weU as he was able that the dean 
might have something to say on the subject which would serve Mr. 
Crawley's defence. " We shouldn't leave any stone unturned," said 
Mr. Toogood. " As far as I can judge, Crawley still thinks, or half 
thinks, that he got the cheque from your son-in-law." Mr. Harding 
shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm not saying he did, you know," 
continued Mr. Toogood. " I can't see myself how it is possible ; but 
still, we ought not to leave any stone unturned. And Mrs. Arabin, 
can you tell me at all where we shall find her ? " 

" Has she anything to do with it, Mr. Toogood '? " 

" I can't quite say that she has, but it's just possible. As I said 
before, Mr. Harding, we mustn't leave a stone unturned. They're not 
expected here till the end of April ? " 

" About the 25th or 26th, I think." 

"And the assizes are the 28th. The judges come into the city on 
that day. It will be too late to wait till then. We must have our 
defence ready you know. Can you say where my friend will find 
Mrs. Arabin ? " 

Mr. Harding began nursing his knee, patting it and being very 
tender to it, as he sat meditating with his head on one side, medi- 
tating not so much as to the nature of his answer as to that of the 
question. Could it be necessary that any emissary from a lawyer's 
office should be sent after his daughter ? He did not like the idea of 
his Eleanor being disturbed by questions as to a theft. Though she 


had been twice married and had a son who was now nearly a man, still 
she was his Eleanor. But if it was necessary on Mr. Crawley's behalf, 
of course it must be done. " Her last address was at Paris, sir ; but I 
think she has gone on to Florence. She has friends there, and she 
purposes to meet the dean at Venice on his return." Then Mr. Harding 
turned the table and wrote on a card his daughter's address. 

" I suppose Mrs. Arabia must have heard of the affair ? " said 
Mr. Toogood. 

" She had not done so when she last wrote. I mentioned it 
to her the other day, before I knew that she had left Paris. If 
my letters and her sister's letters have been sent on to her, she must 
know it now." 

Then Mr. Toogood got up to take his leave. " You will excuse me 
for troubling you, I hope, Mr. Harding." 

" Oh, sir, pray do not mention that. It is no trouble, if one could 
only be of any service." 

" One can always try to be of service. In these affairs so much is 
to be done by rummaging about, as I always call it. There have been 
many theatrical managers, you know, Mr. Harding, who have usually 
made up their pieces according to the dresses they have happened to 
have in their wardrobes." 

" Have there, indeed, now ? I never should have thought of 

" And we lawyers have to do the same thing." 

4 'Not with your clothes, Mr. Toogood ? " 

" Not exactly with our clothes ; but with our information." 

" I do not quite understand you, Mr. Toogood." 

" In preparing a defence we have to rummage about and get up 
what we can. If we can't find anything that suits us exactly, we are 
obliged to use what we do find as well as we can. I remember, when I 
was a young man, an ostler was to be tried for stealing some oats in the 
Borough ; and he did steal them too, and sold them at a rag-shop 
regularly. The evidence against him was as plain as a pike-staff. All 
I could find out was that on a certain day a horse had trod on the 
fellow's foot. So we put it to the jury whether the man could walk as 
far as the rag- shop with a bag of oats when he was dead lame ; and 
we got him off." 

" Did you though ? " said Mr. Harding. 

" Yes, we did." 

" And he was guilty?" 

" He had been at it regularly for months." 


" Dear, dear, dear ! Wouldn't it have been better to have had him 
punished for the fault, gently ; so as to warn him of the consequences 
of such doings ? " 

" Our business was to get him off, and we got him off. It's my 
business to get my cousin's husband off, if I can, and we must do it, by 
hook or crook. It's a very difficult piece of work, because he won't let 
us employ a banister. However, I shall have one in the court and say 
nothing to him about it at all. Good-by, Mr. Harding. As you say, 
it would be a thousand pities that a clergyman should be convicted of a 
theft; and one so well connected too." 

Mr. Harding, when he was left alone, began to turn the matter 
over in his mind and to reflect whether the thousand pities of which 
Mr. Toogood had spoken appertained to the conviction of the criminal, 
or the doing of the crime. "If he did steal the money I suppose he 
ought to be punished, let him be ever so much a clergyman," said 
Mr. Harding to himself. But yet, how terrible it would be ! Of 
clergymen convicted of fraud in London he had often heard ; but 
nothing of the kind had ever disgraced the diocese to which he belonged 
since he had known it. He could not teach himself to hope that 
Mr. Crawley should be acquitted if Mr. Crawley were guilty ; but he 
could teach himself to believe that Mr. Crawley was innocent. Some- 
thing of a doubt had crept across his mind as he talked to the lawyer. 
Mr. Toogood, though Mrs. Crawley was his cousin, seemed to believe 
that the money had been stolen ; and Mr. Toogood as a lawyer ought 
to understand such matters better than an old secluded clergyman in 
Barchester. But, nevertheless, Mr. Toogood might be wrong; and 
Mir. Harding succeeded in satisfying himself at last that he could not 
be doing harm in thinking that Mr. Toogood was wrong. When he 
had made up his mind on this matter he sat down and wrote the 
following letter, which he addressed to his daughter at the post-office 
in Florence : 

" DEAEEST NELLY, Deanery, March , 186. 

" WHEN I wrote on Tuesday I told you about poor Mir. Crawley, 
that he was the clergyman in Barsetshire of whose misfortune you read 
an account in Galignani's Messenger, and I think Susan must have 
written about it also, because everybody here is talking of nothing else, 
and because, of course, we know how strong a regard the dean has for 
Mr. Crawley. But since that something has occurred which makes me 
write to you again, at once. A gentleman has just been here, and 
has indeed only this moment left me, who tells me that he is an attorney 


in London, and that lie is nearly related to Mrs. Crawley. He seems 
to be a very good-natured man, and I daresay he understands his 
business as a lawyer. His name is Toogood, and he has come down as 
he says to get evidence to help the poor gentleman on his trial. I 
cannot understand how this should be necessary, because it seems to me 
that the evidence should all be wanted on the other side. I cannot for a 
moment suppose that a clergyman and a gentleman such as Mr. Crawley 
should have stolen money, and if he is innocent I cannot understand 
why all this trouble should be necessary to prevent a jury finding him 

" Mr. Toogood came here because he wanted to see the dean, and 
you also. He did not explain, as far as I can remember, why he wanted 
to see you ; but he said it would be necessary, and that he was going 
to send off a messenger to find you first, and the dean afterwards. 
It has something to do with the money which was given to Mr. 
Crawley last year, and which, if I remember right, was your present. 
But of course Mr. Toogood could not have known anything about that. 
However, I gave him the address, poste restante, Florence, and I 
daresay that somebody will make you out before long, if you are still 
stopping at Florence. I did not like letting him go without telling 
you about it, as I thought that a lawyer's coming to you would 
startle you. 

" The bairns are quite well, as I told you in my other letter, and 
Miss Jones says that little Elly is as good as gold. They are with me 
every morning and evening, and behave like darling angels, as they are. 
Posy is my own little jewel always. You may be quite sure I do 
nothing to spoil them. 

" God bless you, dearest Nelly, 

" Your most affectionate father, 


After this he wrote another letter to his other daughter, Mrs. 
Grantly, telling her also of Mr. Toogood' s visit ; and then he spent 
the remainder of the day thinking over the gravity of the occurrence. 
How terrible would it be if a beneficed clergyman in the diocese should 
really be found guilty of theft by a jury from the city ! And then he 
had always heard so high a character of this man from his son-in-law. 
No, it was impossible to believe that Mr. Crawley had in truth stolen 
a cheque for twenty pounds ! 

Mr. Toogood could get no other information in Barchester, and went 
on to Silverbridge early in the afternoon. He was half disposed to go 


by Hogglestock and look up his cousin, whom he had never- seen, and 
his cousin's husband, upon whose business he was now intent ; but on 
reflection he feared that he might do more harm than good. He had 
quite appreciated the fact that Mr. Crawley was not like other men. 
" The man's not above half-saved," he had said to his wife, meaning 
thereby to insinuate that the poor clergyman was not m full possession 
of his wits. And, to tell the truth of Mr. Toogood, he was a little 
afraid of his relative. There was a something in Mr. Crawley 's manner, 
in spite of his declared poverty, and in spite also of his extreme 
humility, which seemed to announce that he expected to be obeyed when 
he spoke on any point with authority. Mr. Toogood had not forgotten 
the tone in which Mr. Crawley had gaid to him, " Sir, this thing you 
cannot do." And he thought that, upon the whole, he had better not 
go to Hogglestock on this occasion. 

When at Silverbridge, he began at once to " rummage about." His 
chief rummaging was to be done at Mr. Walker's table ; but before 
dinner he had time to call upon the magistrate's clerk, and ask a few 
questions as to the proceedings at the sitting from which Mr. Crawley 
was committed. He found a very taciturn old man, who was nearly as 
difficult to deal with in any rummaging process as a porcupine. But, 
nevertheless, at last he reached a state of conversation which was not 
absolutely hostile. Mr. Toogood pleaded that he was the poor man's 
cousin, pleaded that, as the family lawyer, he was naturally the poor 
man's protector at such a time as the present, pleaded also that -as the 
poor man was so very poor, no one else could come forward on his 
behalf, and in this way somewhat softened the hard sharpness of the 
old porcupine's quills. But after all this, there was very little to be 
learned from the old porcupine. " There was not a magistrate on the 
bench," he said, " who had any doubt that the evidence was sufficient 
to justify them in sending the case to the assizes. They had all 
regretted," the porcupine said in his softest moment, " that the 
gentleman had come there without a legal adviser." " Ah, that's been 
the mischief of it all ! " said Mr. Toogood, dashing his hand against the 
porcupine's mahogany table. " But the facts were so strong, Mr. 
Toogood!" "Nobody there to soften 'em down, you know," said 
Mir. Toogood, shaking his head. Very little more than this was learned 
from the porcupine ; and then Mr. Toogood went away, and prepared 
for Mr. Walker's dinner. 

Mr. Walker had invited Dr. Tempest and Miss Anne Prettyman 
and Major Grantly to meet Mr. Toogood, and had explained, in a 
manner intended to be half earnest and half jocose, that though Mr. 


Toogood was an attorney, like himself, and was at this moment engaged 
in a noble way on behalf of his cousin's husband, without any idea of 
receiving back even the money which he would be out of pocket ; still 
he wasn't quite, not quite, you know " not quite so much of a gentle- 
man as I am," Mr. Walker would have said, had he spoken out freely 
that which he insinuated. But he contented himself with the emphasis 
he put upon the " not quite," which expressed his meaning fully. And 
Mr. Walker was correct in his opinion of Mr. Toogood. As regards 
the two attorneys I will not venture to say that either of them was not 
a " perfect gentleman." A perfect gentleman is a thing which I cannot 
define. But undoubtedly Mr. Walker was a bigger man in his way than 
was Mr. Toogood in his, and did habitually consort in the county of 
Barsetshire with men of higher standing than those with whom Mr. 
Toogood associated in London. 

It seemed to be understood that Mr. Crawley was to be the general 
subject of conversation, and no one attempted to talk about anything 
else. Indeed, at this time, very Httle else was talked about in that 
part of the county ; not only because of the interest naturally 
attaching to the question of the suspected guilt of a parish clergyman, 
but because much had become lately known of Mr. Crawley 's character, 
and because it was known also that an internecine feud had arisen 
between him and the bishop. It had undoubtedly become the general 
opinion that Mr. Crawley had picked up and used a cheque which was 
not his own ; that he had, in fact, stolen it ; but there was, in spite 
of that belief, a general wish that he might be acquitted and left in his 
living. And when the tidings of Mr. ,Crawley's victory over the bishop 
at the palace had become bruited about, popular sympathy went with the 
victor. The theft was, as it were, condoned, and people made excuses 
which were not always rational, but which were founded on the instincts 
of true humanity. And now the tidings of another stage in -the 
battle, as fought against Mr. Crawley by the bishop, had gone forth 
through the county, and men had heard that the rural dean was to be 
instructed to make inquiries which should be preliminary to proceedings 
against Mr. Crawley in an ecclesiastical court. Dr. Tempest, who was 
now about to meet Mr. Toogood at Mr. Walker's, was the rural dean to 
whom Mr. Crawley would have to submit himself in any such inquiry ; 
but Dr. Tempest had not as yet received from the bishop any official 
order on the subject. 

" We are so delighted to think that you have taken up your 
cousin's case," said Mrs. Walker to Mr. Toogood, almost in a whisper. 

" He is not just my cousin, himself," said Mr. Toogood, " but of 


course it's all the same thing. And as to taking up his case, you see, 
my dear madam, he won't let me take it up." 

" I thought you had. I thought you were down here about it ? " 

" Only on the sly, Mrs. Walker. He has such queer ideas 
that he will not allow a lawyer to be properly employed ; and 
you can't conceive how hard that makes it. Do you know him, Mrs. 
Walker ? " 

" We know his daughter Grace." And then Mrs. Walker whispered 
something further, which we may presume to have been an intimation 
that the gentleman opposite, Major Grantly, was supposed by some 
people to be very fond of Miss Grace Crawley. 

" Quite a child, isn't she?" said Toogood, whose own daughter, 
now about to be married, was tJjLree or four years older than Grace. 

" She's beyond being a child, I think. Of course she is young." 

"But I suppose this affair will knock all that on the head," said 
the lawyer. 

" I do not know how that may be ; but they do say he is very 
much attached to her. The major is a man of family, and of course it 
would be very disagreeable if Mr. Crawley were found guilty." 

" Very disagreeable, indeed ; but, upon my word, Mrs. Walker, I 
don't know what to say about it." 

" You think it will go against him, Mr. Toogood ? " Mr. Toogood 
shook his head, and on seeing this, Mrs. Walker sighed deeply. 

" I can only say that I have heard nothing from the bishop as yet," 
said Dr. Tempest, after the ladies had left the room. "Of course, if 
he thinks well to order it, the inquiry must be made." 

" But how long would it take ?" asked Mr. Walker. 

" Three months, I should think, or perhaps more. Of course. 
Crawley would do all that he could to delay us, and I am not at all 
sure that we should be in any very great hurry ourselves." 

" Who are the 'we,' doctor ? " said Mr. Walker. 

" I cannot make such an inquiry by myself, you know. I suppose 
the bishop would ask me to select two or four other clergymen to act 
with me. That's the usual way of doing it. But you may be quite 
sure of this, Walker ; the assizes will be over, and the jury have found 
their verdict long before we have settled our preliminaries." 

" And what will be the good of your going on after that ? " 

" Only this good : if the unfortunate man be convicted " 

" Which he won't," said Mr. Toogood, who thought it expedient to 
put on a bolder front in talking of the matter to the rural dean, than he 
had assumed in his whispered conversation with Mrs. Walker. 


"I hope not, with all iny heart," said the doctor. "But, per- 
haps, for the sake of the argument, the supposition may be allowed 
to pass." 

"Certainly, sir," said Mr. Toogood. "For the sake of the 
argument, it may pass." 

"If he be convicted, then, I suppose, there will be an end of the 
question. He would be sentenced for not less, I should say, than 
twelve months ; and after that " 

" And would be as good a parson of Hogglestock when he came 
out of prison as when he went in," said Mr. Walker. " The con- 
viction and judgment in a civil court would not touch his tem- 

" Certainly not," said Mr. Toogood. 

"Of course not," said the doctor. "We all know that; and in 
the event of Mr. Crawley coming back to his parish it would be open to 
the bishop to raise the question as to his fitness for the duties." 

" Why shouldn't he be as fit as any one else ? " said Mr. Toogood. 

" Simply because he would have been found to be a thief," said the 
doctor. " You must excuse me, Mr. Toogood, but it's only for the 
sake of the argument." 

" I don't see what that has to do with it," said Mr. Toogood. " He 
would have undergone his penalty." 

"It is preferable that a man who preaches from a pulpit should 
not have undergone such a penalty," said the doctor. " But in 
practice, under such circumstances, which we none of us anticipate, 
Mr. Toogood, the living should no doubt be vacated. Mr. Crawley 
would probably hardly wish to come back. The jury will do their 
work before we can do ours, will do it on a much better base than 
any we can have ; and, when they have done it, the thing ought to be 
finished. If the jury acquit him, the bishop cannot proceed any 
further. If he be found guilty I think that the resignation of the 
living must follow." 

" It is all spite, then, on the bishop's part ?" said the major. 

"Not at all," said the doctor. " The poor man is weak; that is 
all. He is driven to persecute because he cannot escape persecution 
himself. But it may really be a question whether his present pro- 
ceeding is not right. If I were bishop I should wait till the trial was 
over ; that is all." 

From this and from much more that was said during the evening 
on the same subject Mr. Toogood gradually learned the position 
which Mr. Crawley and the question of Mr. Crawley's guilt really held 


in the county, and he returned to town resolved to go on with 
the case. 

" I'll have a barrister down express, and I'll defend him in his 
own teeth," he said to his wife. " There'll be a scene in court, 
I daresay, and the man will call upon his own counsel to hold his 
tongue and shut up his brief; and, as far as I can see, counsel in 
such a case would have no alternative. But there would come an 
explanation, how Crawley was too honourable to employ a man whom 
he could not pay, and there would be a romance, and it would all go 
down with the jury. One wants sympathy in such a case as that not 

" And how much will it cost, Tom ? " said Maria, dolefully. 

"Only a trifle. We won't think of that yet. There's John 
Eames is going all the way to Jerusalem, out of his pocket." 

"But Johnny hasn't got twelve children, Tom." 

" One doesn't have a cousin in trouble every day," said Toogood. 
" And then you see there's something very pretty in the case. It's 
quite a pleasure getting it up." 



" I'VE known the City now for more than ten years, Mr. Crosbie, and 
I never knew money to be so tight as it is at this moment. The best 
commercial bills going can't be done under nine, and any other kind 
of paper can't so much as get itself looked at." Thus spoke Mr. 
Musselboro. He was seated in Dobbs Broughton's arm-chair in 
Dobbs Broughton's room in Hook Court, on the hind legs of which 
he was balancing himself comfortably ; and he was communicating his 
experience in City matters to our old friend, Adolphus Crosbie, of 
whom we may surmise that he would not have been there, at that 
moment, in Hook Court, if things had been going well with him. It 
was now past eleven o'clock, and he should have been at his office at the 
West End. His position in his office was no doubt high enough to place 
him beyond the reach of any special inquiry as to such absences ; but 
it is generally felt that when the Crosbies of the West End have calls 
into the City about noon, things in the world are not going well with 
them. The man who goes into the City to look for money is generally 
one who does not know where to get money when he wants ik Mr. 
Musselboro on this occasion kept his hat on his head, and there was 
something in the way in which he balanced his chair which was in 
itself an offence to Mr. Crosbie's personal dignity. It was hardly as 
yet two months since Mr. Dobbs Broughton had assured him in that 
very room that there need not be the slightest anxiety about his bill. 
Of course it could be renewed, the commission being duly paid. 
As Mr. Dobbs Broughton explained on that occasion, that was his 
business. There was nothing he liked so much as renewing bills for 
such customers as Mr. Crosbie ; and he was very candid at that 
meeting, explaining how he did this branch of his business, raising 
money on his own credit at four or five per cent., and lending it on 
his own judgment at eight or nine. Mr. Crosbie did not feel himself 
then called upon to exclaim that what he was called upon to pay was 
about twelve, perfectly understanding the comfort and grace of euphony ; 
but he had turned it over in his mind, considering whether twelve per 
cent, was not more than he ought to be mulcted for the accommodation 
he wanted. Now, at the moment, he would have been glad to get it 
from Mr. Musselboro, without further words, for twenty. 


Things had much changed with Adolphus Crosbie when he was 
driven to make morning visits to such a one as Mr. Musselboro with the 
view of having a bill renewed for two hundred and fifty pounds. In 
his early life he had always had the merit of being a careful man as to 
money. In some other respects he had gone astray very foolishly, 
as has been partly explained in our earlier chapters ; but up to the date 
of his marriage with Lady Alexandrina De Courcy he had never had 
dealings in Hook Court or in any such locality. Money troubles had 
then come upon him. Lady Alexandrina, being the daughter of a 
countess, had high ideas ; and when, very shortly after his marriage, 
he had submitted to a separation from his noble wife, he had found 
himself and his income to be tied up inextricably in the hands of one 
Mr. Mortimer Gazebee, a lawyer who had married one of his wife's 
sisters. It was not that Mr. Gazebee was dishonest ; nor did Crosbie 
suspect him of dishonesty; but the lawyer was so wedded to the 
interest of the noble family with which he was connected, that he 
worked for them all as an inferior spider might be supposed to work, 
which, from the infirmity of its nature, was compelled by its instincts 
to be catching flies always for superior spiders. Mr. Mortimer Gazebee 
had in this way entangled Mr. Crosbie in his web on behalf of those 
noble spiders, the De Courcys, and our poor friend, in his endeavour 
to fight his way through the web, had fallen into the hands of the 
Hook Court firm of Mrs. Van Siever, Dobbs Broughton, and Musselboro. 

11 Mr. Broughton told me when I was last here," said Crosbie, 
" that there would be no difficulty about it." 

" And it was renewed then ; wasn't it ? " 

" Of course it was, for two months. But he was speaking of 
a continuation of renewal." 

"I'm afraid we can't do it, Mr. Crosbie. I'm afraid we can't, 
indeed. Money is so awful tight." 

" Of course I must pay what you choose to charge me." 

"It isn't that, Mr. Crosbie. The bill is out for collection, and 
must be collected. In times like these we must draw ourselves in a 
little, you know. Two hundred and fifty pounds isn't a great deal ot 
money, you will say ; but every little helps, you know ; and, besides, 
of course we go upon a system. Business is business, and must not 
be made pleasure of. I should have had a great deal of pleasure in 
doing this for you, but it can't be done in the way of business." 

" When will Broughton be here ? " 

" He may be in at any time ; I can't say when. I suppose he's 
down at the court now." 


" What court ? " 

" Capel Court." 

" I suppose I can see him there ? " said Crosbie. 

" If you catch him you can see him, of course. But what good 
will that do you, Mr. Crosbie ? I tell you that we can't do it for 
you. If Broughton was here this moment it couldn't make the 
slightest difference." 

Now Mr. Crosbie had an idea that Mr. Musselboro, though he sat 
in Dobbs Broughton' s seat and kept on his hat, and balanced his chair 
on two legs, was in truth nothing more than a clerk. He did not 
quite understand the manner in which the affairs of the establishment 
were worked, though he had been informed that Mrs. Van Siever was 
one of the partners. That Dobbs Broughton was the managing man, 
who really did the business, he was convinced ; and he did not there- 
fore like to be answered peremptorily by such a one as Musselboro. 
"I should wish to see Mr. Broughton," he said. 

" You can call again, or you can go down to the court if you like 
it. But you may take this as an answer from me that the bill can't be 
renewed by us." At this moment the door of the room was opened, 
and Dobbs Broughton himself came into it. His face was not at all 
pleasant, and any one might have seen with half an eye that the money- 
market was a great deal tighter than he liked it to be. " Here is 
Mr. Crosbie here, about that bill," said Musselboro. 

" Mr. Crosbie must take up his bill ; that's all," said Dobbs 

" But it doesn't suit me to take it up," said Crosbie. 

" Then you must take it up without suiting you," said Dobbs 

It might have been seen, I said, with half an eye, that Mr. 
Broughton did not like the state of the money-market ; and it might 
also be seen with the other half that he had been endeavouring to mitigate 
the bitterness of his dislike by alcoholic aid. Musselboro at once 
perceived that his patron and partner was half drunk, and Crosbie 
was aware that he had been drinking. But, nevertheless, it was 
necessary that something more should be said. The bill would be due 
to-morrow, was payable at Crosbie's bankers ; and, as Mr. Crosbie too 
well knew, there were no funds there for the purpose. And there were 
other purposes, very needful, for which Mr. Crosbie's funds were at the 
present moment unfortunately by no means sufficient. He stood for a 
few moments thinking what he would do ; whether he would leave the 
drunken man and his office and let the bill take its chance, or whether 



he would make one more effort for an arrangement. He did not for a 
moment believe that Broughton himself was subject to any pecuniary 
difficulty. Broughton lived in a big house, as rich men live, and had a 
name for commercial success. It never occurred to Crosbie that it was 
a matter of great moment to Dobbs Broughton himself that the bill 
should be taken up. Crosbie still thought that Musselboro was his 
special enemy, and that Broughton had joined Musselboro in his 
hostility simply because he was too drunk to know better. "You 
might, at any rate, answer me civilly, Mr. Broughton," he said. 

" I know nothing about civility with things as they are at present," 

said Broughton. " Civil by ! There's nothing so civil as paying 

money when you owe it. Musselboro, reach me down the decanter and 
some glasses. Perhaps Mr. Crosbie will wet his whistle." 

"He don't want any wine, nor you either," said Musselboro. 

" What's up now ? " said Broughton, staggering across the room 
towards a cupboard, in which it was his custom to keep a provision of 
that comfort which he needed at the present moment. "I suppose I 
may stand a glass of wine to a fellow in my own room, if I like it.' 

" I will take no wine, thank you," said Crosbie. 

" Then you can do the other thing. When I ask a gentleman to 
take a glass of wine, there is no compulsion. But about the bill there is 
compulsion. Do you understand that ? You may drink, or let it alone ; 
but pay you must. Why, Hussy, what d'ye think ? there's Carter, 
Bicketts and Carter ; I'm blessed if Carter just now didn't beg for two 
months, as though two months would be all the world to him, and 
that for a trumpery five hundred pounds. I never saw money like it 
is now; never." To this appeal, Musselboro made no reply, not 
caring, perhaps, at the present moment to sustain his partner. He 
still balanced himself in his chair, and still kept his hat on his head. 
Even Mr. Crosbie began to perceive that Mr. Musselboro's genius was 
in the ascendant in Hook Court. 

" I can hardly believe," said Crosbie, " that things can be so bad 
that I cannot have a bill for two hundred and fifty pounds renewed 
when I am willing to pay for the accommodation. I have not done 
much in the way of bills, but I never had one dishonoured yet." 

" Don't let this be the first," said Dobbs Broughton. 

"Not if I can prevent it," said Crosbie. "But, to tell you the 
truth, Mr. Broughton, my bill will be dishonoured unless I can have it 
renewed. If it does not suit you to do it, I suppose you can recommend 
me to some one who can make it convenient." 

" Why don't you go to your bankers ?" said Husselboro. 


" I never did ask my bankers for anything of the kind." 

" Then you should try what your credit with them is worth," said 
Broughton. " It isn't worth much here, as you can perceive. Ha, 
ha, ha!" 

Crosbie, when he heard this, became very angry ; and Musselboro, 
perceiving this, got out of his chair, so that he might be in readiness to 
prevent any violence, if violence were attempted. "It really is no 
good you're staying here," he said. " You see that Broughton has 
been drinking. There's no knowing what he may say or do." 

" You be blowed," said Broughton, who had taken the aim-chair as 
soon as Musselboro had left it. 

" But you may believe me in the way of business," continued 
Musselboro, " when I tell you that it really does not suit us to renew 
the bill. We're pressed ourselves, and we must press others." 

" And who will do it for me ?" said Crosbie, almost in despair. 

" There are Burton and Bangles there, the wine-merchants down 
in the yard ; perhaps they may accommodate you. It's all in their line ; 
but I'm told they charge uncommon dear." 

"I don't know Messrs. Burton and Bangles," said Crosbie. 

" That needn't stand in your way. You tell them where you, come 
from, and they'll make inquiry. If they think it's about right, they'll 
give you the money ; and if they don't, they won't." 

Mr. Crosbie then left the office without exchanging another word with 
Dobbs Broughton, and went down into Hook Court. As he descended 
the stairs he turned over in his mind the propriety of going to Messrs. 
Burton and Bangles with the view of relieving himself from his present 
difficulty. He knew that it was ruinous. Dealings even with such 
men as Dobbs Broughton and Musselboro, whom he presumed to be 
milder in their greed than Burton and Bangles, were, all of them, steps 
on the road to ruin. But what was he to do ? If his bill were dis- 
honoured, the fact would certainly become known at his office, and he 
might even ultimately be arrested. In the doorway at the bottom of 
the stairs he stood for some moments, looking over at Burton and 
Bangles', and he did not at all like the aspect of the establishment. 
Inside the office he could see a man standing with a cigar in his mouth, 
very resplendent with a new hat, with a hat remarkable for the bold 
upward curve of its rim, and this man was copiously decorated with a 
chain and seals hanging about widely over his waistcoat. He was 
leaning with his back against the counter, and was talking to some one 
on the other side of it. There was something in the man's look and 
manner that was utterly repulsive to Crosbie. He was more vulgar to 


the eye even than Musselboro, and his voice, which Crosbie could hear 
as he stood in the other doorway, was almost as detestable as that of 
Dobbs Broughton in his drunkenness. Crosbie did not doubt that this 
was either Burton or Bangles, and that the man standing inside was 
either Bangles or Burton. He could not bring himself to accost these 
men and tell them of his necessities, and propose to them that they 
should relieve him. In spite of what Musselboro had just said to him, 
he could not believe it possible that he should succeed, were he to do 
so without some introduction. So he left Hook Court and went out 
into the lane, hearing as he went the loud voice of the man with the 
turned-up hat and the chain. 

But what was he to do ? At the outset of his pecuniary troubles, 
when he first found it necessary to litigate some question with the De 
Courcy people, and withstand the web which Mortimer Gazebee wove so 
assiduously, his own attorney had introduced him to Dobbs Broughton, 
and the assistance which he had needed had come to him, at any rate, 
without trouble. He did not especially like Mr. Broughton ; and when 
Mr. Broughton first invited him to come and eat a little bit of dinner, 
he had told himself with painful remorse that in his early days he had 
been accustomed to eat his little bits of dinner with people of a different 
kind. But there had been nothing really painful in this. Since his 
marriage with a daughter of the De Courcys, by which marriage he had 
intended to climb to the highest pinnacle of social eating and drinking, 
he had gradually found himself to be falling in the scale of such matters, 
and could bring himself to dine with a Dobbs Broughton without any 
violent pain. But now he had fallen so low that Dobbs Broughton had 
insulted him, and he was in such distress that he did not know where 
to turn for ten pounds. Mr. Gazebee had beaten him at litigation, and 
his own lawyer Tiad advised him that it would be foolish to try the 
matter further. In his marriage with the noble daughter of the 
De Coarcys he had allowed the framers of the De Courcy settlement to 
tie him up in such a way that now, even when chance had done so 
much for him in freeing him from his wife, he was still bound to 
the De Courcy faction. Money had been paid away, on his behalf, as 
alleged by Mr. Gazebee, like running water; money for furniture, 
money for the lease of a house, money when he had been separated 
from his wife, money while she was living abroad. It had seemed to 
him that he had been made to pay for the entire support of the female 
moiety of the De Courcy family which had settled itself at Baden-Baden, 
from the day, and in some respects from before the day, on which his 
wife had joined that moiety. He had done all in his power to struggle 


against these payments, but every such struggle had only cost him more 
money. Mr. Gazebee had written to him the civilest notes ; but every 
note seemed to cost him money, every word of each note seemed to 
find its way into some bill. His wife had died and her body had been 
brought back, with all the pomp befitting the body of an earl's 
daughter, -that it might be laid with the old De Courcy dust, at his 
expense. The embalming of her dear remains had cost a wondrous 
sum, and was a terrible blow upon him. All these items were 
showered upon him by Mr. Gazebee with the most courteously worded 
demands for settlement as soon as convenient. And then, when he 
applied that Lady Alexandrina's small fortune should be made over to 
him, according to a certain agreement under which he had made over 
all his possessions to his wife, should she have survived him, Mr. 
Gazebee expressed a mild opinion that he was wrong in his law, and 
blandly recommended an amicable lawsuit. The amicable lawsuit was 
carried on. His own lawyer seemed to throw him over. Mr. Gazebee 
\vas successful in everything. No money came to him. Money was 
demanded from him on old scores and on new scores, and all that he 
received to console him for what he had lost was a mourning ring with 
his wife's hair, for which, with sundry other mourning rings, he had to 
pay, and an introduction to Mr. Dobbs Broughton. To Mr. Dobbs 
Broughton he owed five hundred pounds ; and as regarded a bill for the 
one-half of that sum which was due to-morrow, Mr. Dobbs Broughton 
had refused to grant him renewal for a single month ! 

I know no more uncomfortable walking than that which falls to the 
lot of men who go into the City to look for money, and who find none. 
Of all the lost steps trodden by men, surely the steps lost after that 
fashion are the most melancholy. It is not only that they are so vain, 
but that they are accompanied by so killing a sense of shame ! To wait 
about in dingy rooms, which look on to bare walls, and are approached 
through some Hook Court ; or to keep appointments at a low coffee-house, 
to which trystings the money-lender will not trouble himself to come 
unless it pleases him ; to be civil, almost suppliant, to a cunning knave 
whom the borrower loathes ; to be refused thrice, and then cheated 
with his eyes open on the fourth attempt ; to submit himself to vulgarity 
of the foulest kind, and to have to seem to like it ; to be badgered, 
reviled, and at last accused of want of honesty by the most fraudulent 
of mankind ; and at the same time to be clearly conscious of the ruin 
that is coming, this is the fate of him who goes into the city to find 
money, not knowing where it is to be found ! 

Crosbie went along the lane into Lombard Street, and then he stood 


still for a moment to think. Though he knew a good deal of affairs in 
general, he did not quite know what would happen to him if his bill 
should he dishonoured. That somebody would bring it to him noted, 
and require him instantly to put his hand into his pocket and bring out 
the amount of the bill, plus the amount of certain expenses, he thought 
that he did know. And he knew that were he in trade he would 
become a bankrupt ; and he was .well aware that such an occurrence 
would prove him to be insolvent. But he did not know what his 
creditors would immediately have the power of doing. That the fact 
of the bill having been dishonoured would reach the Board under which 
he served, and, therefore, also the fact that he had had recourse to 
such bill transactions, this alone was enough to fill him with dismay. 
In early life he had earned his head so high, he had been so much 
more than a mere Government clerk, that the idea of the coming 
disgrace almost killed him. Would it not be well that he should put 
an end to himself, and thus escape ? "What was there in the world 
now for which it was worth his while to live ? Lily, whom he had 
once gained, and by that gain had placed himself high in all hopes of 
happiness and riches, whom he had then thrown away from him, and 
who had again seemed to be almost within his reach, Lily had so 
refused him that he knew not how to approach her with a further 
prayer. And, had she not refused him, how could he have told her of 
his load of debt ? As he stood at the corner where the lane runs into 
Lombard Street, he came for a while to think almost more of Lily than 
of his rejected bill. Then,- as he thought of both his misfortunes 
together, he asked himself whether a pistol would not conveniently put 
an end to them together. 

At that moment a loud, harsh voice greeted his ear. " Hallo, 
Crosbie, what brings you so far east ? One does not often see you in 
the City." It was the voice of Sir Eaffle Buffle, which in former days 
had been very odious to Crosbie's ears ; for Sir Raffle Buffle had once 
been the presiding genius of the office to which Crosbie still belonged. 

" No, indeed, not very often," said Crosbie, smiling. Who can tell, 
who has not felt it, the pain that goes to the forcing of such smiles ? 
But Sir Raffle was not an acutely observant person, and did not see 
that anything was wrong. 

" I suppose you're doing a little business ? " said Sir Raffle. "If 
a man has kept a trifle of money by him, this certainly is 'the time for 
turning it. You have always been wide awake about such things." 

" No, indeed," said Crosbie. If he could only make up his mind 
that he would shoot himself, would it not be a pleasant thing to inflict 


some condign punishment on this odious man before he left the world ? 
But Crosbie knew that he was not going to shoot himself, and he knew 
also that he had no power of inflicting condign punishment on Sir 
'Baffle Buffle. He could only hate the man, and curse him inwardly. 

"Ah, ha!" said Sir Baffle. "You wouldn't be here unless you 
knew where a good thing is to be picked up. But I must be off. I'm 
on the Bocky Mountain Canal Company Directory. I'm not above 
taking my two guineas a day. Good-by, my boy. Bemember me to 
old Optimist." And so Sir Baffle passed on, leaving Crosbie still 
standing at the corner of the lane. 

What was he to do ? This interruption had at least seemed to 
drive Lily from his mind, and to send his ideas back to the considera- 
tion of his pecuniary difficulties. He thought of his own bank, a West- 
End establishment at which he was personally known to many of the 
clerks, and where he had been heretofore treated with great considera- 
tion. But of late his balances had been very low, and more than once 
he had been reminded that he had overdrawn his account. He knew 
well that the distinguished firm of Bounce, Bounce, and Bounce would 
not cash a bill for him or lend him money without security. He did 
not even dare to ask them to do so. 

On a sudden he jumped into a cab, and was driven back to his 
office. A thought had come upon him. He would throw himself upon 
the kindness of a friend there. Hitherto he had contrived to hold his 
head so high above the clerks below him, so high before the Commis- 
sioners who were above him, that none there suspected him to be a man 
in difficulty. It not seldom happens that a man's character stands too 
high for his interest, so high that it cannot be maintained, and so high 
that any fall will be dangerous. And so it was with Crosbie and his 
character at the General Committee Office. The man to whom he was 
now thinking of applying as his friend, was a certain Mr. Butterwell, 
who had been his predecessor in the secretary's chair, and who now 
filled the less onerous but more dignified position of a Commissioner. 
Mr. Crosbie had somewhat despised Mr. Butterwell, and had of late 
years not been averse to showing that he did so. He had snubbed 
Mr. Butterwell, and Mr. Butterwell, driven to his wits' ends, had tried 
a fall or two with him. In all these struggles Crosbie had had the best 
of it, and Butterwell had gone to the wall. Nevertheless, for the sake 
of official decency, and from certain wise remembrances of the sources of 
official comfort and official discomfort, Mr. Butterwell had always main- 
tained a show of outward friendship with the secretary. They smiled 
and were gracious, called each other Butterwell and Crosbie, and 


abstained from all cat- and- dog absurdities. Nevertheless, it was 
the frequently expressed opinion of every clerk in the office that 
Mr. Butterwell hated Mr. Crosbie like poison. This was the man to 
whom Crosbie suddenly made up his mind that he would have*, 

As he was driven back to his office he resolved that he would make 
a plunge at once at the difficulty. He knew that Butterwell was fairly 
rich, and he knew also that he was good-natured, with that sort of 
sleepy good-nature which is not active for philanthropic purposes, but 
which dislikes to incur the pain of refusing. And then Mr. Butterwell 
was nervous, and if the thing was managed well, he might be cheated 
out of an assent, before time had been given him in which to pluck up 
courage for refusing. But Crosbie doubted his own courage also, 
fearing that if he gave himself time for hesitation he would hesitate, 
and that, hesitating, he would feel the terrible disgrace of the thing 
and not do it. So, without going to his own desk, or ridding himself 
of his hat, he went at once to ButterwelFs room. When he opened the 
door, he found Mr. Butterwell alone, reading The Times. "Butterwell, " 
said he, beginning to speak before he had even closed the door, " I 
have come to you in great distress. I wonder whether you can help 
me ; I want you to lend me five hundred pounds ? It must be for not 
less than three months." 

Mr. Butterwell dropped the paper from his hands, and stared at the 
secretary over his spectacles. 


London: Printed by SMITH, ELDER AND Co., Old Bailey, E.G.